Sullivan Regrets
by Molly4Holmes
Summary: Can Sullivan overcome the past, or does fate have another cruel hand to play?
1. Chapter 1

I only recently began watching _Father Brown_ on Netflix, and find the series charming, and the characters are intriguing, particularly Inspector Sullivan. As his first name is not given in the series, I decided to christen him Alexander.

* * *

Lady Felicia could not deny being somewhat nervous. She had thrown innumerable soirees over the years, and they had, for the most part, been successful (save murder, violent arguments, and resulting divorces). This one, planned for just an hour from now, was considerably different.

"Calm down, Felicia," Monty said, taking another draw on his pipe, but he looked nervous, too. "She's an American, right?"

"And a princess," Felicia muttered. "We've never had a princess here. She's a cousin, but I only have hazy memories of her visiting as a little slip of a thing."

"An American princess," Monty shook his head. "Married to a bloody German."

"Was married. He's dead."

"Good ridd—."

"Monty, dear, he funded the resistance in France and in Germany. Smuggled hundreds of folks out of Germany and Eastern Europe, and was treated very badly by the Germans for it. From all I've heard, the Prince von Altburg was a good man." She swallowed. "He was in Dachau 'til the end of the war, poor fellow, and helped many there survive while starving himself. Got his lungs wrecked and his legs turned to matchsticks as a result."

Monty sighed and nodded. "One forgets that not all Germans are bad apples," he conceded.

"Exactly. He was described as a devoutly religious man, albeit a firm teetotaler, and the Princess von Altburg is described as practically an angel, so we must all be on our best behavior. I do recall her being a sweet, deliciously pretty baby." Felicia went to sip her brandy but put it down, her nerves scattering like startled birds. "So no excessive drinking, no inappropriate flirting and please for the love of God, no murders!" The last plea was emphasized with a sign of the Cross and eyes lifted upward to Heaven.

Monty laughed. "Come now, dearest, one doesn't commit murder in the presence of royalty."

"Hm. Just ask Marie Antoinette."

The butler entered the room. "Sir, Madame… Her Serene Highness the Princess India von Altburg."

Monty stood, jettisoning his pipe, and Felicia smoothed the front of her dress and held her hands demurely at her waist. The doors were opened and in walked the princess. Felicia drew in her breath, and Monty looked genuinely delighted—typical, she thought. The princess, barely twenty-six, looked hardly over sixteen, with dark hair, which was pinned up in a very elegant twist. Felicia was amazed at how the young woman had dared to string a diamond necklace through the twists, creating a bewitching effect.

She was very slender and carried herself with a quiet confidence rarely seen in young English girls, and her eyes—bright, curious and friendly—were so blue they were almost violet. She wore an elegant black matinee dress, high heels… and Felicia noticed a rather worn-looking silver bracelet on the girl's wrist.

"Your Serene Highness," Felicia said, bobbing.

"Oh, please, don't do that, cousin Felicia. I'm your guest here. I should be curtseying to you, and I thank you for your hospitality." India said, smiling and extending her hand. Felicia looked down at the silk-encased hand and took it, shaking it warmly.

"It is such a pleasure to have you here Your…erm…"

"India. Lady India Collins by birth and a princess only because I married a prince. Lord Montague, it's so nice to meet you, and I was so happy to get your invitation to visit. I hope I'm not putting you out."

"Certainly not, Miss… er… India."

The young woman laughed. She had a soft voice, touched with a surprising Southern accent that was flavored by a Texas twang if it could be called that. India's voice and accent reminded Felicia of lively and lovely bluegrass music she had heard once at a club in London.

"Just India, please. What a beautiful house you have, and such lovely grounds. I was tempted to stop and take a dip in your pond, but it's much too cold."

"Thank you, India," Felicia said, regaining her composure more quickly than Monty. "Would you like some tea?"

India seemed to waver slightly, but she smiled. "Do you perhaps have iced tea?"

"Er… iced… tea?" Monty asked, and glanced at Felicia, who could have sworn the girl had asked if they had 'assed tea', which hardly sounded right.

"I mean iced," India said, looking embarrassed, emphasizing the 'I'. "I'm originally from Texas. I got into trouble all the time for saying 'iced' and people thought I was saying 'assed'. My grandmother would tan my hide if I said such a thing in earnest. Don't get me started on what happened when I asked for ice cream!"

Felicia's nerves settled and she started giggling, and India smiled, looking mischievous.

"I can assure you, we won't spill a word to your dear grandmama, and we will have Cook prepare you some iced tea," Monty said, grinning. "Please excuse me and I'll go have a word with the man."

India nodded, and Felicia gestured for her to sit. She was still giggling and had to rein herself in before she sat down opposite the princess, in front of the fireplace. "I hope your journey here was comfortable."

"The seas were a bit rough," India said. "I learned that the old saying was true, about seasickness—for the first hour, you think you're going to die, and by the second hour, you're hoping that you will, but I made it across alive and well, if a bit green, and as I was too ill to corral them, my sons had the run of the entire ship!" She looked around the bright, elegantly-decorated room. "Life at sea doesn't suit me, but all the men in my family relish it. I take after my mother in having no sea legs at all."

"I understand your mother was from Hungary."

"Yes. A cousin of Queen Mary's no less." India crossed her knees. "My feet are killing me. May I take my shoes off?"

"Of course you may. I usually go barefoot around here, if no one else is about." Lady Felicia swallowed. "A c-cousin of Queen Mary?"

"Yes. Her father was a younger son of Count Rhédey von Kis-Rhéde, Queen Mary's grandfather. You know, Europeans are much like Southerners—we know who's kin to who, that's for sure, and all that really does count here and back home. Of course, Southerners are also like the Chinese, in that we eat rice and worship our ancestors."

Felicia laughed. The girl's sense of humor was quite refreshing. "I must say, I've always wanted to visit the American South."

"It's definitely different from England, though Southerners and the British share some of the same sensibilities. I mean, a Scotsman can tolerate being called British, but only a fool would ever call him English, and we Southerners are proud of being Americans but don't dare call us Yankees! There are cultural differences, of course, but during the Recent Unpleasantness, England supported the South… you know, my grandmother's father was in the Rebel army, but he freed all his slaves ten years before the war even started—wanted no part of what he called 'an ungodly and uncivilized institution', so his point of view was more complicated than this generation fully grasps. He was a Texas Ranger, before and after the war. He had to break up a brawl once, and in the process, he bit a man's finger off."

"Good heavens!" Felicia gasped, horrified and delighted at once. "He must have been something to see!"

"Let's just say you never wanted to make him really mad, and just leave it at that. I like to tell myself I have some of his grit and determination, but really, if I stub my toe I'm crying for hours. Total wimp, that's me. But Granny always said he was a kind, gentle man who taught his children how to live off the land and grow tomatoes… run tro't lines, skin bucks… all the really useful stuff… so maybe if the time comes, I won't just be decorative after all." She smiled. "I only remember him a little. He was quite old when I came along, but I remember he had a long white beard and carried me around like a sack of wheat. He called me the 'leastest child', as I was youngest then, and weighed the least."

Felicia could barely keep herself together by then. India had a deadpan delivery that kept one totally unprepared for her brand of humor. Felicia would have preferred to sit in the lounge, talking with India, instead of hosting the town's worthies, but the invitations had already been sent and the RSVPs returned. There was no going back unless she wanted to risk social ruin.

"I'm afraid I have to go prepare for our tea luncheon. We have a room ready for you if you need to freshen up."

"Might I use your phone, Lady Felicia? I need to call my sons. They're already out at the castle with their goofy uncle and they need the voice of sanity to ring through occasionally."

"Absolutely. Make yourself at home!"

* * *

The guests began arriving at precisely four-o'clock, all eager to meet a princess, and Felicia was relieved to see Father Brown shuffle through the door, Mrs. McCarthy in his wake. She greeted him with a smile and nodded at Sid, who had brought him and Mrs. McCarthy from the presbytery.

"I must admit, I'm a bit nervous about meeting a princess," Mrs. McCarthy said, once they were all assembled in the drawing room, along with some other local gentry. "Do I curtsey or bob or what?"

"She's quite unpretentious," Felicia said. "Friendly and good-natured, too, and has a wonderful sense of humor." She nodded at Monty as he came in.

"She'll only require us to prostrate ourselves before her and promise our undying loyalty, I'm sure," Sid said, snatching a petit-four from a tray before Mrs. McCarthy could smack his hand and order him out.

"An American, I think someone said," Father Brown said. "I'm always very curious about Americans."

"Well, be they wild Indians or not, they are a curious lot," Mrs. McCarthy said. "I remember the American girls who came over and married all the English lords—my mother saw Consuelo Vanderbilt once and thought her the prettiest thing she ever saw. I admit, Americans do tend to be a robust lot."

Sid grinned. "Yeah, and the girls are knockouts, too."

"They just have different accents, and I suppose their robust health is due to what they call 'hybrid vigor'. Still, they're humans, like the rest of us, and the Americans I have met have been quite charming and open, and very friendly." Father Brown turned and looked surprised when Inspector Sullivan came through the door, looking as uncomfortable as he ever did in social situations. He removed his hat and coat, surrendered them to the butler, and nodded vaguely at Father Brown, who smiled a greeting.

"Good afternoon, Inspector."

"Father Brown." He snatched a drink from a passing tray and nodded. "Can't fathom why I'm here. Lady Felicia just said some aristocrat was coming and the local worthies are commanded to come meet her. I thought Lady Felicia was the local aristocrat, and I'm met her more times than I can count. Is this some toffy-nosed Old Etonian with more space between his eyes than between his ears, or is it is some useless git from the Government?" He took a sip of his drink.

Sid looked amused at that one, and he marked the comment as proving that Sullivan was not a member of any sort of landed gentry.

"It's not good for a man to be cooped up inside a police station all day," Brown countered, somewhat gently. "You'll get prison pallor."

"And a grumpy disposition," Lady Felicia said, smiling, but that only got a brief, icy glare from Sullivan, and she let it slip right over her head. Mrs. McCarthy grabbed hold of the idea with her usual eagerness.

"Aye, it's true, Inspector Sullivan. Perhaps if you socialized more, you would be a happier person." She seemed to steel herself and plowed on. "You might even smile sometimes."

The inspector's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but Lady Felicia stepped between them before Sullivan could answer. She turned to smile at everyone, which caused Sullivan to step away from the door and take a place next to Father Brown. The priest could have sworn he heard the inspector mutter something about wishing he had a glass of whisky and a smoke, but he pretended it was his imagination.

Lady Felicia smiled broadly at everyone. "I'm very pleased to present Her Serene Highness Princess India von Altburg."

India, looking a little embarrassed, stepped into the room and smiled at everyone, but her smile froze as soon as her gaze left Father Brown's and settled on Inspector Sullivan. Her rosy cheeks lost all color, and she pursed her lips, her loosely folded hands now clenching together so tightly Felicia wondered if they could ever be pried apart.

Sullivan handed Father Brown his drink, the sherry sloshing on the priest's cassock. Felicia was at a total loss, and India seemed to shrink into herself, losing any semblance of her previous good-humored confidence.

"Highness," Sullivan said, stepping forward and stopping in front of the princess, not bowing at all, but instead he glowered at her. "Out slummin' 'mongst us common folk? Get your mum's permission this time?"

"Inspector Sullivan, that is… utterly rude!" Felicia hissed, once she had regained some of her composure.

He didn't answer her. India finally managed to look up at the inspector's face, and for a moment his furious expression softened, but he shook his head, clearing it, then he snatched his hat and coat from the alarmed butler. "No worries. I'll be taking my leave. Thank you, Mrs. McCarthy, for your excellent advice. As always, socializing has made me much happier." He turned on his heel and stalked outside, slamming the door behind him, leaving the assembled guests of Lady Felicia bewildered and Princess India von Altburg completely shattered.


	2. Chapter 2

India's horse was unsatisfactory, and she had forgotten how uncomfortable English riding saddles could be.

She closed her eyes, wishing again that she had never agreed to go riding, but Lady Felicia had been eager to try to get her mind off yesterday's disastrous _soiree_. Well, it had been disastrous until Inspector Sullivan left. After that, India had patted her face with a cold washcloth and calmed down a bit, then everything had gone well enough. But the elephant was still in the room, and she knew everybody there had wanted to ask: how on earth does a German princess know, much less earn the wrath of, a copper?

Copper. She hated that term. It was so disrespectful. Alex Sullivan was not just some 'copper', after all. He had been ambitious and determined to succeed and rise above his upbringing and his less-than-savory connections. India had always had respect and admiration for the police and for the military how could she not, growing up surrounded by lawmen and soldiers, in the very cradle of America's own warrior class? As one of only two girls in her family, she had nonetheless learned all about guns and fighting and how to stop a brawl or a riot ("One riot, one Ranger."). Her mother had encased her hands in silk and dressed her in lace, but her father and uncles and brothers had taught her how to land a punch, using all her weight (all one hundred twenty pounds!) and how to 'SING', as Logan called it ('solar plexus, instep, nose, groin!'), and how to be thrown but to never fall off a horse 'No Collins ever falls off their mount!', her father had said a million times. India thus knew as much about equitation and self-defense as she did about cooking. Which was a lot.

She pulled her riding helmet off and rubbed the back of her neck, cursing the chilly morning air it seemed like cold weather riding always had her twice as overheated as when she rode during the summer! The horse kept shying and seemed determined to eat her boot. She remained patient with the animal, however, and praised him when he behaved well and only gently corrected his truculence when required. Felicia and Monty were coming up behind her, both panting, and India felt a little twinge of satisfaction an American cowgirl can outride any Englishman!

Just don't say that out loud, she thought as she smiled at her hosts. They were both so nice, after all, and had never mentioned yesterday's 'unfortunate encounter', as Monty kept calling it, in the same way one called the sinking of the Titanic a 'minor sailing mishap'. But really, there was no way anyone could have known that India knew Inspector Sullivan, and she had certainly never uttered a word about him to anyone since the last time she had seen him, back in London. Her dear, sweet Fritz didn't even know about him, and she had never kept even the purchase of a new hat from him.

All hearts have secrets, her grandmother had once told her, and she was right. Of course, her grandmother had a tendency to be right about almost everything.

"Cunning Fox is a bit headshy, I see," Monty said, looking a little glum. "I knew I should have put you on Norah. She's much nicer."

"It's not a bother. I like a challenge, and it's been a lovely ride." Aside from her sore _ice_ and the sweaty hair and nascent migraine, it had been a jolly gallop. Absently, she fingered the silver bracelet on her wrist. "Though I admit I could use a break about now. I told you my brother will be coming along tomorrow morning with my boys."

"Yes, quite right," Monty said. "I look forward to meeting the Duke. I hear he's a crack shot and excellent rider. Though I understand he doesn't ride to hounds."

India smiled, amused. "To coon hounds, maybe. We have coyote hunts sometimes, and wild hog hunts year 'round. We don't go after coyotes much, as they were there long before us, but it's legal to kill as many wild hogs as you like, any time, so long as you've got your papers. They're terribly destructive, and even attack people and destroy fields and gardens. A wild hog killing always led to some nice barbecues, though Texans aren't quite so big on pork as they are in the Deep South. We're beef people."

"Oh! Yes, Monty was just saying we should have a nice barbecue in the summer, to remind you of home. Outdoor buffet, with some entertainments. We'll have chicken." Lady Felicia smiled, and India caught that look of 'just what kind of girl are you?' expression on her face again. Still figuring me out, she thought with an inward laugh, but India pushed herself away from the urge to tell them that cooking outdoors, in Texas, was basically a sign of poverty, but she wasn't about to be ungrateful or ungracious to her hosts. "Well, you must let me help with the cooking this evening, and I'll make breakfast tomorrow, too. I enjoy cooking a great deal."

"Do you?" Lady Felicia dismounted, and Monty helped India down.

"It's kind of a hobby," India said with a laugh. "What I really love is making something good, putting it on the table where the goats can get to it, and watching them enjoy themselves. My grandmother and aunts were all culinary prodigies, so I had quite a bit of schooling on the subject."

"I hear Southern cooking is beyond compare," Monty said, already salivating. "Particularly your pies."

India couldn't keep from grinning. "Oh, well, then I'll have to try my key lime pie on you, your Lordship!"

* * *

"My God my God, I've never eaten anything so marvelous in my life," Monty said. He looked across the table at Father Brown, who was tucking into a second piece of key lime pie. The priest gathered a piece on his fork, lifted his eyes to the loving God who created wonderful cooks, and took another bite.

"Did y'all enjoy the roast, too?" India asked. "I thought it was a little stringy, but "

"Stringy?" Father Brown said, putting his fork down and gazing reverently at the remains of the roast beef dinner on the table. "It was magnificent so tender it practically melted when I touched it with my fork. What angels taught you how to cook?"

"My grandmother and my aunts and some of my sisters-in-law. Granny was a Keeler before she married Pap-paw Duke. She learned to cook from her mama, whose Daddy was the finger-eating Texas Ranger. He was the only one who ever sampled human flesh, to our knowledge, but he taught Granny and her brothers how to range-cook and barbecue, and nobody's biscuits compare to hers. My mother never learned to cook, though she was told once that a fine lady should own chafing dishes, so she bought a bunch but never learned how to use them!" That got a round of laughter from everyone at the table. "Poor thing, she couldn't even make goulash."

"This key lime pie, ma'am, is beyond description in its utter wonderfulness," Father Brown said, sighing happily, having finished his piece. "Alas, this will have to go on my list for Lent, as I'm sure they will serve this in Heaven."

"Well, you'll have to have a sample of pecan pie and buttermilk pie and Mississippi mud pie oh, and banana cream and icebox lemon and chocolate chess pie of course, there's also my chicken noodle soup, which is my Granny's recipe and is so restorative even the chicken gets well. Plus there's old-fashioned fruit salad and roasted turkey and dressing "

"Oh, dear, if I eat all that, I'll have to make a very long list for Lent!" Father Brown laughed. "But I wouldn't tell Mrs. McCarthy about your grandmother's biscuits erm scones. Her strawberry scones have won prizes, you know."

"I'm sure they have," India said with a smile. "I'd like to compare notes with her and pick up some new ideas." She made a subtle signal for the maid to remove her plate. "I've also got an announcement to make."

Everyone looked at her, eyes wide and expectant.

"I have decided to purchase the old Applecross Manor and settle here, in Kembleford. My brother will be only ten miles away, and my boys will have plenty of room on the estate to run about and get into proper trouble, like any little boy should, and they'll be closer to their relatives on the Continent. Plus the Cotswolds are simply beautiful, and the people are so kind." She took a sip of her wine. "I've already spoken with the land agent and I'll be finalizing the purchase next week."

"Oh, that's lovely! Applecross has been needing an attentive owner for some time now," Felicia said. "It's one of the prettiest estates around."

"It has a lovely, huge kitchen, too, with all the space I need. I'm going to raid all the local markets for the right ingredients for my kind of cooking, and before long I'll be hosting my first barbecue."

"I can just picture you cooking outside," Felicia said.

India smiled into her wine glass. "It's not quite that sort of barbecuing. I'll have to build a pit."

* * *

Luncheon was being cleared away, and Felicia had shooed India out of the kitchen to let the servants do their end of the work. The young woman sat down in the lounge, relaxing a little, and smiled at Father Brown, who was dozing by the fire. She was not a Catholic she was a devout non-denominationalist but she found him very kind and very interesting. She snatched up a butterscotch sweet from the candy dish and popped it into her mouth.

"You are truly an amazing cook, ma'am. I daresay I've never had a finer meal."

"Thank you, sir. I credit the iron-jawed ladies in my family for that."

"You're originally from Texas, hm? I can't help picturing deserts and cacti "

"Oh, it's not quite that way. I was raised in central Texas, just north of Austin. Wild cedar breaks and rugged hills, goat ranches, little stone houses and fields of bluebonnets that look like ponds from a distance. In east Texas, there are pine forests, and in the south, there's the coastal plains and lovely beaches. Up north, it's what they call the Staked Plains, where Comanches and buffalo once roamed, and out west, it's dark mountains and scrub desert. I love the Hill Country more than I can say. I love the sound of the wind in the grass, and in the cedars." She sighed and put her head back, closing her eyes. "My Fritz had a horrible reaction to cedar pollen, though, so our stays there were always in the summer and fall. He never got to experience springtime in central Texas bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush, pinwheels and Indian blankets and mountain laurel that smells like grape soda, and wisteria taking over the gazebo behind the house it's glorious, and the bluebonnets smell so sweet." She smiled at Father Brown. "Now you've gone and made me homesick!"

He smiled back. "I do apologize."

"Not that English springs aren't lovely, but home is home, isn't it?"

"Indeed."

She finished her butterscotch candy and got another. "You are acquainted with Inspector Sullivan?" she asked.

"I know him somewhat. As much as he allows, anyway."

India snickered. "Yes, that sounds like Alex I mean, Inspector Sullivan."

"How do you know him?"

The young American smiled sadly. "Like you, sir only as much as he allowed."

Father Brown pursed his lips, pondering. He actually liked Inspector Sullivan and admired the man's tenacity, level-headedness, and sharp intelligence, but it saddened him to see so little light in the man. He rarely smiled or laughed, only took part in social situations out of a sense of obligation, and seemed to have no one in his life. Brown was convinced (in spite of some people's less-than-charitable views) that Inspector Sullivan only needed a home and family and he might actually be contented, wherever God put him.

Brown started to speak again, but stopped himself. India had fallen asleep. He settled back in his chair and sipped his sherry, surprised to be at such ease in the presence of a sleeping princess. He smiled a little she seemed to have light all around her, and he understood now why people seemed to be drawn to her. With her dazzling cooking skills, elegant beauty, and charm, it wouldn't be too hard for her to find peace and happiness as well.

* * *

Sullivan was pacing, back and forth, his agitation growing with every step. He had given up pacing in his tiny cottage there was barely room to sit, much less pace and so now he was wearing down a path in his office, which was also too small for pacing, so he kept banging his knee on the chair. Needless to say, his mood was not improving and his knee was killing him. He sat down and ran his hand through his hair, wishing he had something to drink. Neither tea nor coffee would do the trick.

Why in the name of God did she have to show up? It had taken him almost nine years to get over her, and now here she was, in Kembleford, ripping the bandage right off the wound. He had worked hard to build up a reputation, in this tiny corner of the world, for being in control of his emotions, and yet the second he had seen her, any semblance of self-control had gone right out the bloody window. He rubbed his temples, trying to push away a headache, but it was relentless.

Memories of India flooded around him her fun-loving, sweet nature and ability to draw him out and make him laugh; her beautiful eyes and bright smile her warmth. For a man who had grown up fighting for his very survival from one day to the next, meeting her had been like stepping out of a prison into sunlight and fresh air. She had shown him that perhaps the world wasn't quite as rotten as he thought and that maybe there were people out there who weren't just out to knock him down. She even knew what a loving, supportive family looked like, and that was a concept far beyond anything he had ever experienced.

Of course, she had been very young when he'd met her, and had he known her age at the time, he wouldn't have taken the risk, or so he kept telling himself. He was many things, then and now, but he didn't mess about with young girls, no matter how tempting-and God help him, but she had tempted him, but by the time she had told him, he had been beyond the point of no return. Finding out, and then coming up against the iron will of her mother, had been the final nail in the coffin of what had been between them, and now he was feeling that pain all over again.

A knock at the door jerked Sullivan from his thoughts. "Come!"

Goodfellow stepped in. "Sir, we caught up with Vic the Nick. Bringin' 'im in now."

"Oh, grand," Sullivan muttered. Vic the Nick would steal his mother's own dentures if it would give him a profit. Bloody hell, he probably already had. "I'll be there in a moment."

"If I might say so, sir, you look like death served on a cracker."

That earned Goodfellow a cold glare from his superior, and the sergeant left quickly. Sullivan hadn't slept a wink last night, and he prayed that once India left Kembleford, he might be able to sleep again. Until then it was coffee during the day to stay alert and whisky at night to switch off his misery for a few hours. All while she haunted him.

As if she had ever really stopped haunting him.

"I hope you don't mind my brother bringing my sons here," India said, looking apologetically at Lady Felicia. They were sitting down for breakfast (pancakes, prepared by the young woman herself, and already being lustfully eyed by Monty). She had made enough pancakes and sausage patties for an army.

"Of course not," Felicia said, glancing at Monty, but he was already tucking into the pancakes. They were beautifully golden-brown, thick, and fluffy, blessed with pats of farm butter and covered over with sinfully delicious maple syrup. The sausage patties, too, looked and tasted heavenly.

"They're a bit rowdy, my boys, but altogether sweet. They know Mama doesn't tolerate willful disobedience or backtalk, anyway," India said, her mouth twisting a little. "Not that they don't try my patience sometimes, but I try to keep an understanding heart when it comes to little boys."

The doorbell rang and the butler was nearly bowled over by two rampaging boys. Felicia stood, startled, and Monty raised his head, momentarily pulled out of his pancake stupor, but he soon returned to his breakfast.

"Maximillian, Sebastian, both of you come here and hug your Mama and then please settle down a bit!" India said quickly, getting up and going around to greet her sons. She looked up to see her brother, the 9th Duke of Errington, standing in the doorway, looking amused. "David. Good heavens, did you get pitched into an oil well?" His clothes were soiled by motor oil and other stains, and his boots were muddy, though he had scraped them off on the brush by the door.

"Car went a bit wonky," he said, coming around and kissing his sister's cheek. He greeted Monty (still engrossed in a what was becoming a lifelong obsession with pancakes) and Felicia. "These two lads were very helpful. Shying rocks at squirrels definitely got the old rattletrap going again."

India cuddled her sons and sat down, the boys taking seats on either side. "Oh, Mama made pancakes!" the older boy said excitedly.

The Duke was the most un-Duke-like person Felicia had ever seen. He was tall, ruggedly handsome, burly and tanned from a lifetime spent outdoors. He was wearing a plaid flannel shirt, faded dungarees and what looked like snakeskin boots?! He was dead sexy, really, but he was wearing a wedding ring and had a look of genuine contentedness about him. His only resemblance to India was his brilliant blue eyes and easy-going, friendly manners.

"Would you like some breakfast, Your Grace?" Felicia asked, knowing Monty was too full of pancakes to think straight.

"It's David. And no thank you. I have to run. We've got a bunch of Highland cattle running loose, with at last two heading toward the local village. Why y'all don't have cattle guards at your gates, I don't know there's another improvement to make out at the estate. Gotta go round 'em up, and Clare is already up mucking stalls and getting the horses ready for a hunt this afternoon."

"Oh, a hunt!" India said. "I take it's not wild boar."

The Duke grinned. "Nope. Drag hunt. Some folks are comin' over, all eager, no doubt, to get a look at an American cowboy who is also a Duke. I figure they must think I'm half alligator, half Indian, with a bit of earthquake thrown in. I'm thinking of putting on a feather headdress and some warpaint and really liven up the show. Once they see Clare and find out she's a wildcatter's daughter, they won't know what to think."

"Oh, now, David, you can't wear that thing you wore at the Folies Berg re again," India said with a giggle. "You'll get arrested for sure this time."

"Oh, you're a cheeky little tart, aren't you, baby sister?" He grinned and kissed her cheek. "I'll see myself out." India's sons rushed over to hug their uncle goodbye, and Felicia was surprised when the man kissed each boy's temple and tousled their hair. "Now you two mind your Mama and your manners. You're in somebody else's house, too, so it's their rules, and anything you break comes out of your hides."

"Yes, sir," the boys said, saluting the Duke sharply, but even Felicia, who had little experience with children, could tell they were both mischievous little imps. Just the same, she could see nothing wicked in either of them. In fact, they were as good-natured as their mother and uncle.

Once the Duke had left, India went out into the garden with her sons to chat and do some exploring. Felicia settled down to square away her correspondence and make a few phone calls. She nearly jumped out of her skin when the phone rang just as she was reaching for it.

"Lady Felicia, perhaps you could come down to the presbytery?"

"Oh, Father Brown, please don't tell me someone's been murdered."

"No, I'm pleased to say that today's death rate remains at zero so far."

"Then what do you need?"

"Well, I have a scheme in mind, and I need your help."

"Oh, a scheme! How lovely. What sort?"

"Just come along."

Felicia looked at her watch. "Well, I had promised to bring the princess into town this afternoon, to give her a proper tour, and she's got her two little boys with her now. Is that all right?"

"Well...erm...I wasn't really thinking of..."

"Inviting her? Shame on you, Father!"

"She's the subject of the scheme, Felicia!"

"Oh. Well. Then that would ruin the scheme, wouldn't it? Yes, I'll drop her off somewhere. I'm sure she can do some of her own walking and poking about. Her boys are eight and almost seven, and quite energetic." She paused. "What do you think of her buying Applecross?"

"A helpful part of the scheme," Father Brown said and rang off. Felicia laughed and looked out the window. India was walking by with her two little boys skittering about her in the remaining snow of three days before, talking nonstop and looking under rocks for hidden creatures, and Felicia sat back in her chair, watching in amazement as India and her boys began building a snowman.

* * *

"I'm sure you'll find plenty to do, here in Kembleford," Lady Felicia said as India and her sons climbed out of the Rolls. "My business in town is utterly boring, I'm afraid. There's a few little shops and such around, and oh, there is a bookstore and a curio shop, too " Felicia hoped she didn't sound like she was putting India off, but the princess didn't seem offended in fact, she was eager to explore her new hometown. She only took her sons' hands and led them away, toward the bookstore, as Felicia told Sid to hurry on over to the presbytery.

* * *

"If I hear the phrase 'extenuating circumstances' one more time, I think I might run mad," Sullivan muttered as he sat down at his desk and sighed to see three more fat files ready for him to peruse. "Lost teeth, indeed. Bloody git. Stealing your own mother's dentures... "

He had spent an hour talking to Vic the Nick, who was a thief of ambition equal to Sid Carter's but of considerably less talent. However, the Nick was an excellent source of local backchannel gossip, as they called it, and he knew who was who in town, who wanted to be somebody in town, and what they were planning towards becoming somebody in town. Considering the man had to rely on the starch in his shirts to remain upright, he was easy enough to intimidate into coughing up everything he knew in exchange for a warm meal and a safe place to sleep for the night (that is, a clean cell). Nine times out of ten, whatever the Nick had stolen was easily recovered and returned, and so Sullivan saw no reason to send the man down for good. He was harmless, really, and he was too useful.

He was just opening a file (Horatio Scroggins, burglar a name right out of Oliver Twist, Sullivan thought) when a small rock crashed through the window pane at his right, missed his own head by about an inch (he felt the rock actually brush his hair) and smack into the wall on the other side of the room. Sullivan was on his feet in an instant, furious and already starting to breathe fire, but he stopped when he saw two young boys standing on the other side of the street, looking absolutely horrified. One was holding a slingshot, and both were frozen in one spot. The smaller boy saw Sullivan and pointed his gloved finger at the larger one, who glared down at him, fists on his hips, and Sullivan almost burst into laughter, relieved for a spot of levity in a horrible day.

"What the devil?" Goodfellow said, rushing into the room. "Are you all right, sir?"

"Little boys. Do you have my shillelagh?"

"I'll get it, sir!" Goodfellow said, grinning and rushing away in search of the desired weapon. Sullivan pulled on his coat, grabbed his hat and went out to the bullpen, where some other cops were standing around, looking amused.

"Assassins, sir?" one of the men asked as Goodfellow handed him the shillelagh.

"Paid off, I'm sure, and ready for murder," Sullivan said and put on his hat. He went outside, Goodfellow behind him, and strode across the street to the two boys, who hadn't moved an inch.

"He did it!" the younger boy said, in a rather plaintive voice. Both were bundled up in warm coats, wool caps, and gloves, and their cheeks were rosy from the cold. They looked like pesky, mischievous, fun-loving boys and Sullivan felt a twinge of sadness-he had almost no memories of being allowed to just be an ordinary little boy. Good for them, to get outside and be noisy and get into mischief.

"I was aiming at a crow!" the older said, glaring at his younger brother.

"What, the crow was hovering outside my window?" Sullivan asked, narrowing his eyes. The older boy quaked and the younger looked like he wanted to run away and hide in his mother's skirts. Sullivan knew to take a softer approach with him, but the older had to face the music not just for breaking the window and only just missing causing injury to someone, but also for setting a bad example for his younger brother.

"I'm very sorry, sir," the boy said, and Sullivan noted then that the boys had unusual accents. Slightly English, but the older boy's 'I' sounded more like an 'ah'.

"What is your name?" Sullivan asked.

"Maximillian von Altburg, sir and this is my brother Sebastian."

Sullivan drew in his breath and looked up and down the street, but saw no one about except two amused-looking old biddies who had seen the whole thing and could barely wait to get on the phone about this incident. Sullivan handed the shillelagh to Goodfellow. "Come along then. It's fingerprints and detention."

"Fingerprints!" Maximillian gasped. "But... but... sir, we'll pay for the window!"

"Indeed you will, but not even repentance and restitution can remove consequences. Come along. You too, Sebastian. Goodfellow, where are the extra-small handcuffs?"

The younger boy looked like he might start crying, so Sullivan shook his head slightly, and Goodfellow nodded. "Right. Lost them again, did you? Out of your pay, Goodfellow. Come along, lads."

The boys followed Sullivan and Goodfellow across the street and into the station. The other constables were soon busy at their work, all very serious and grim as the boys were photographed and fingerprinted. Sullivan brought them into his office for questioning, though, instead of taking them into the interrogation room-he had no intention of traumatizing two little boys. He sat down and had Goodfellow bring in another chair. Once the door was closed, Sullivan dropped the severe act and sat back in his chair. "Settle down, both of you. It was an accident, and I can see no malicious intent, and I know contrition when I see it. You're sorry you did it?"

"Yes, sir, very much so." The boy was looking glumly at his blackened fingertips. "Do I have a record now?" he asked in a whisper, looking up at him with wide eyes.

"Don't worry. The first-time offense only gets a maximum sentence of ten minutes, and those records always seem to get lost somehow. Just be more careful next time-only aim at street signs." He studied the boys for a moment. "Von Altburg, is it?"

"Yes. We're visiting Kembleford," the younger boy said, still looking a little shellshocked.

"We're going to live here, actually," Maximillian offered cheerfully. "Mama bought Apple...Apple... " he paused, uncertain.

"Applecross?" Sullivan finally provided. "The Applecross estate?"

"Yes, sir, that's it!" Maximillian said eagerly. "It's very large and we'll have our own ponies brought out there, and Uncle David and our cousins all live nearby, too, 'cept our cousins back in Texas and our cousins in Germany. We'll even go to school here in town."

"I see." Sullivan had to rein in his emotions, which were starting to run around as though they had just heard the war was over. "Where is your mother?"

There was a knock at the door. "Come in!" Sullivan barked.

"Sir, there's a woman here, says we have her sons."

Sullivan sighed and closed his eyes, counting to ten. He wasn't at all surprised to open them to the sight of India standing in the doorway, eyes blazing violet blue with anger. "How dare you!" she hissed at him. Goodfellow backed out, not wanting to get into this particular fray.

"Your older boy broke that window with a rock," Sullivan said, keeping his voice calm, however turbulent he felt right now she looked smashing in a blue coat dress and a long, warm-looking black coat. He nodded his head toward the shattered window pane. "I know he didn't mean to break it, and there was no malice in the action. But reasons are never excuses and he's served his time, so he and his brother are both released back into your care."

India glared at him, then turned her angry gaze on her sons. Both boys' heads were down, one dark, the other blond. "Well, what do you have to say for yourselves? Maximillian! Sebastian! Shame on you both! Throwing rocks! Max, what sort of example are you setting for your brother? Besides that, you could have hurt someone!"

"Actually shooting with a slingshot, to be precise. They just need more practice," Sullivan said, and she looked at him again, blue eyes still blazing, though a little less hotly now. "He was trying to nail a crow. Got my window instead. Missed my head by a well, a hair."

"Maximillian Christian Alexander George von Altburg!" India gasped. "You killed your first wild boar last year and now you're going after crows?"

The boy looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Mama."

India drew in her breath, and Sullivan's gaze fell to her lovely chest and he forgot where he was for a moment. She glanced at her sons, then faced him. "I'm very sorry about your window, Inspector Sullivan. Please send me a bill and the broken pane will be repaired, and Maximillian will be punished with all due severity and mercy."

"Thank you, ma'am. I would recommend more mercy than severity, though."

She gestured for the boys to go out and wait for her. When she was alone with him, India clutched her small handbag in front of her, as if it were a shield, and exhaled slowly. "I was very surprised to see you, two days ago. How are you?" she finally said, as if reciting words for a play.

"Very well. You?"

"Middling."

He nodded. Best to keep this formal. Polite. Impersonal. Guns locked away.

"Good. Glad to hear it. I apologize for my behavior before. I was very rude."

"Yes, you were, but you had the rug pulled out from under you."

He almost smiled. "Reasons aren't excuses, India."

"Yes, well, valid excuses trump reasons sometimes, and really, we don't always have to be reasonable, do we?"

He pursed his lips, searching for a safer topic. "How's your mother?"

"She died four years ago."

He winced. So much for 'safe'. "I'm sorry."

"The war and worrying about her sons, and then seeing her own beloved Hungary overrun by Stalin's bully-boys all that, plus increasingly poor health her body just couldn't hold up, however strong-willed she was." She swallowed. "But my brother finally came home from Japan. His stay there, as you recall, was not voluntary and was very unpleasant."

"I hope he's well now."

"Oh, yes. You can't kill a Collins with an ax. At least not a Collins man. He's back in Texas, helping to run the ranch at Llano and the oil wells out west."

He nodded. India had told him about the country where she had grown up the wild, rough hills of central Texas and the hard but kind people it sustained. The land in west Texas, where the oil wells were, was dry and grim for all the wealth it brought the Collins family, but the Hill Country remained her home. Her stories had been colorful, from tales of her ancestors' running battles with Indians to her and her brothers finding stashes of arrowheads along riverbeds. It still amazed him that India, a woman who looked so elegant and refined, mainly wore gloves to cover the callouses on her palms. She could change her own tyres, could navigate by the stars, knew her way around firearms and didn't even flinch when she saw snakes. Spiders, however...

"Have you been home lately?" he asked at last.

"We lived in Virginia until Fritz-Frederick-died, and then I went home and stayed at Buchanan for almost two years. It was a good place to heal. We were surrounded by family and friends. The boys flourished there, and I got through it."

"I'm sure." He swallowed. "How is your sister? Madeleine, I think?"

"Yes. She's doing very well. She married an hotelier in Texas John Morgan. He runs a large resort in a town nearby. A very nice man."

"Not a prince?" Sullivan asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No. She had no use for that. She loves him and..."

"Your mother wasn't around to interfere."

Her sharp intake of breath meant the barb had hit its mark, and he was instantly sorry. "You oh, I keep forgetting how awful you can be!"

"India "

"That's Highness!" she snapped. "Good afternoon, Inspector, and I thank you for not frightening my two poor sons to death, though frankly, I'm surprised you stopped at just fingerprinting them! I'm shocked that you didn't send them both to the gallows!" She turned on her heel and stalked out of the room, mouth set in an angry little line and her children trailing after her, both unnerved at seeing her so upset.

Sullivan leaned against the doorjamb, watching her leave, and caught the curious gazes of the constables.

"All right. Back to work. We're chasing criminals, not children."

Goodfellow said something that Sullivan could have sworn sounded like 'Maybe you ought to be chasing princesses', but he feigned hardness of hearing and went back into his office, closing the door


	3. Chapter 3

India was glad to be out of Kembleford. Her encounter with Alex Sullivan the day before had left her completely discombobulated, and she welcomed a visit to her family estate. She settled back in Lady Felicia's Rolls Royce, a pot of geraniums at her side (wrapped up carefully in cellophane, to protect the seat), her boys scrambling about on the floor, apparently trying to relocate an escaped frog. The driver, a cheeky young man named Sid, was adroitly avoiding potholes in the muddy road, but even then, the ride was anything but smooth.

"Sorry about the rattling about, ma'am," Sid said.

"It's quite all right, sir," India said absently. Sid looked at her through the rearview mirror, startled. No one had ever called him 'sir' before, and that made him grin a little, to have a princess being respectful towards him

"Glad to hear it, ma'am. Doin' my best to keep out of the pot'oles, anyway."

India laughed. "You sound like my father! My mother was always warning him about potholes and people walking alongside the road and horses on the other side of fences… drove him nearly mad!"

Sid laughed, then jerked the wheel, shouting "Oi! What the hell was that?!"

"What is it? Did you hit something?" India asked once she had managed to pick herself up and check the geraniums and her sons for injuries.

"Something jumped up my trouser leg!"

"It must be my frog!" Sebastian piped up happily. India was startled, then amused, when Sid scrambled out of the car, doing an Apache war dance as he tried to get the frog out of his trouser leg. Sebastian, looking terribly embarrassed, scrambled out too, but was too late in re-capturing the frog. It had already hopped into a mud puddle, and the boy knew better than to dive in after it, as he was wearing clean clothes.

"I'm afraid he's escaped, sweetheart," India told her son, who climbed back in and settled beside her, looking a little glum. "Are you all right, Mr. Carter?" she asked kindly. He was straightening his uniform and trying to regain some semblance of his dignity.

"I'm okay," he finally managed. He would never admit to being horribly afraid of any kind of slithery/slimy creature, and that included his cousin Bert, who hopefully would never escape from his confinement. Sid got back into the car, started it up and they were off again, heading towards Errington Castle.

* * *

Father Brown arrived at the constabulary at almost noon, and Sergeant Goodfellow sighed when he saw him but was, as usual, polite. "Good day to you, Father. Doing well?"

"Very well, particularly since I discovered the wonders of key lime pie. Might I speak with Inspector Sullivan?"

The sergeant winced. Sullivan had been on a rampage all day, yelling at everyone, and his agitation had only been heightened due to a grisly murder that had occurred in Brandon Woods two days before—the killer, Sir Alfred Brandon—had turned himself in last night, confessed to the slaying in a flood of tears and led the police to the bodies of the two men he had shot, apparently because he had caught them poaching a pair of rabbits. Sullivan was thus not in a particularly charitable mood, and the way things were going, Goodfellow suspected the man was on his way to a stomach ulcer.

Father Brown would definitely help him along towards that. "On what matter?" Goodfellow asked, glancing warily at the door to Sullivan's office, wondering why the Inspector didn't just keep a bottle of whisky in his desk drawer, like Valentine, to steady his nerves after a visit from Father Brown.

"Erm… "

Sullivan suddenly burst out of his office, hair a little mussed and eyes blazing with fury. "All right, who walked off with the damned requisition reports? When I find out who it was I'm going to ram a meat screwer right through his eye!"

"Good morning, Inspector. A word, please?" Father Brown said, smiling.

"Oh for God's sake! Listen, you… " he winced, closing his eyes and wincing, but apparently counting to ten didn't help. "Listen to me, and listen well. Sir Alfred turned himself in last night. He blubbered through a two-hour long confession that went back to when he stole a packet of crisps from a shop when he was seven to cheating on his tests at Eton, overcharging rent to his tenants and all the way up to his latest crime of killing the two poachers. He led us to the bodies, gave us the rifle, which had only his fingerprints on it, and admitted he'd had bad blood with the poachers for years. He all but painted himself purple, donned a tutu and danced atop a grand piano singing 'I did it, I did it, I did it, I'm glad I did it, knees up, Mrs. Brown and God save the _Queen_ '! So if you're here to tell me he didn't do it, I swear to God I'll strangle you with my tie!"

Father Brown's mouth was hanging open in surprise at Sullivan's diatribe. He clapped his mouth shut and fixed him with a smile, but even Goodfellow could tell the man was a little annoyed. "I'm terribly sorry, Inspector, but I am not here to dispute Sir Alfred's confession. I'm very pleased he turned himself in and spared you so much _stress_."

Sullivan blinked, exhaled, and closed his eyes again. "Fine. Now, what do you want?"

"I need to discuss a different matter altogether. In private, perhaps."

The inspector drew a deep breath. "Fine. Make it short."

"I'll only bother you for a moment, I can assure you."

"That would be a first." Sullivan ran an agitated hand through his hair and let Brown pass into his office. He slammed the door and went around to his desk, searching around until he spotted the requisition forms. "Bloody hell." He separated them from the papers he had mixed them with and set them aside, then folded his hands on his desk and waited. "What?" he asked tightly, trying to unclench his jaw before he cracked a tooth.

"Well, Inspector, I'm going around to local businesses and institutions, asking folks if they might see their way to making a contribution to St John's Orphanage over in Brocklesby. They're in need of clothes and supplies, and as Christmas is coming up soon, it would also be nice if the children could receive some presents, too."

Sullivan loosened his tie, sighing. "Fine. How much do you require?"

"Oh, any contribution is good, and we're almost to the goal towards the necessary supplies. But see, the main means of obtaining all the extra funds—for the Christmas presents, that is—will be through an auction."

"Great. Tattersall's, eh? Those horses go for hefty sums. Just one colt by Hyperion would bring in loads. Lots of presents. Off you go." Sullivan picked up his pen and snatched the requisition form, but he knew Brown wasn't finished—nothing was ever that simple with this turbulent priest.

Father Brown laughed merrily. "I don't think the Bishop would approve of such a sale, though I'd love to have a colt by Hyperion myself! Just the same, the auction will be at the Ladies' Institute in Brocklesby and items of varying degrees of value will be put up. We're sort of hoping the police would make a few contributions, individually, to that end."

"Like what? Whistles and truncheons?"

"Well, I'm not completely certain as to what they're asking for right now, but imagine a bunch of children blowing whistles and beating each other black and blue with truncheons! Not ideal. All the details have yet to be hammered out, but all the local business owners are willing to contribute… we'll be sure and contact the constabulary as soon as we know what's… erm… required."

Sullivan's eyebrow lifted. Something seemed a little fishy here, but he couldn't put his finger on it, but he also knew Brown was no liar. If this auction wasn't on the up and up, the meddling old priest would never approve of it or participate. Even more, he knew that if he said no to making a contribution, he'd be vilified in town even more than he was now. Sullivan exhaled, secretly glad he wasn't discussing a crime but something a little more uplifting. He knew, too well, what it was like to be alone in the world, and at least the children at St John's had somebody looking out for them…

"All right. Just send me details when you have them and we… I'll do what I can." He looked down at the requisition order and was horrified to see he had drawn a small picture of St. John's Church at the bottom of the page, from memory. Father Brown leaned forward, as curious as a cat, studied the little drawing, and looked up at Sullivan

"That's a very fine drawing, Inspector."

Sullivan crumpled the paper and threw into the rubbish bin. "Is there anything else?"

"Perhaps you could contribute a drawing to the auction."

"I don't draw."

"That looked like a drawing to me."

"Father Brown, I do have business to attend to."

The priest nodded and stood, and Sullivan's innate manners forced him to stand as well. "Good day to you, Inspector." Brown shuffled out of the room and Sullivan sat down, rubbing his throbbing forehead. A migraine was forming, right behind his left eye, and he wished he could just go lie down somewhere, with the lights off, to rethink his life.

* * *

 **8 May 1945**

 _"PC… Sullivan, was it? Ah well. Very good. We've got a bit of a situation here."_

 _"I can see that."_

 _It wasn't as though the celebrating crowds were becoming in any way violent. In fact, they were altogether merry, but the throngs were becoming a possible safety risk. Already, two people had been trampled, though not injured beyond a few bruises, and they were laughing about it and rejoining the celebrations. Germany had surrendered, and though the war continued to stagger on in the Pacific, no one could deny there was sound reason to throw a massive party in London. Europe was free from National Socialism and the soul-denying threat of Nazism, and that demanded a celebration._

 _"Well, just keep an eye out and disperse clods of too many people when required." Stanhope nodded and strode away. Sullivan stood at a post near a light pole and watched the teeming crowds as they roiled in every direction, like flocks of drunken birds. He looked across the square and saw the King and Queen on the balcony, with Churchill, and the cheering only got louder. Sullivan sighed and returned his attention to the masses, watching for signs of trouble._

 _"Get your hands off me right now!"_

 _Sullivan turned toward the female voice and saw a young woman—no more than perhaps eighteen—being groped from behind by a sailor, who was kissing her neck with exaggerated passion. Before Sullivan could even step forward, she had slammed her sharp heel down onto the man's instep, making him jerk his head back, yowling in pain but still not releasing her, and then she jabbed her elbow into his ribs. The man staggered back and then lunged back toward her, and she brought his drunken attack to an end by slamming the heel of her hand right into the bridge of his nose. The man howled in pain, nose bleeding and tears undoubtedly stinging his eyes, and Sullivan strode over, picked him up, and shoved him back into the crowd. The sailor barely had time to look disgruntled before he was swallowed up into the happy melee._

 _"Thank you, sir," the girl said. Sullivan looked at her and was momentarily stunned, but he recovered himself quickly._

 _"Not a problem, miss, but you handled it well enough on your own."_

 _She gave him a dazzling smile. "Such a fun celebration, isn't it?" she asked, raising her voice a little to be heard. She had an American accent, and he wondered what she was doing here alone. He remembered what another constable had said about Americans—even if they were overpaid, over-sexed and over here, they did have excellent teeth._

 _"It's… rather jolly."_

 _"Understatement there!" she laughed. "I heard the news this morning and had to come out and see. Now I'm a bit lost—not exactly fast on my feet around London, I'm afraid. Then our drunken friend grabbed me. I suspect he meant no harm-I'm sure he wouldn't have done it if he'd been sober. I see lots of men kissing girls that I'm sure they've never met before, but he smelled like beer and cigarettes, and I'm fond of neither."_

 _Sullivan nodded, at a loss. He felt the same way, though he wasn't against an occasional smoke, though never while he was working._

 _"Did you serve?"_

 _"I was injured at Dunkirk… German bullet in my knee, and that ended my Army career."_

 _"How awful! But I'm glad you survived." She looked around at the cheering crowds. "When we heard the news on the wireless this morning, we all got down on our knees and prayed for the families of the men who won't be coming home. I remember how it was when the war started—lots of cheering and patriotic music and our boys marching off to do their duty, but I thought it very fitting to end the war in Europe with prayer. Three of my brothers are still out there, somewhere in Europe, and one is in Japan."  
_

 _Sullivan just stared at her, taking in her clear, magnolia-flower complexion, heart-shaped face and bright, intelligent blue eyes. She was wearing a pink and white dress and some sort of hat, which was lined with pink and white roses, and it put her figure on display quite brilliantly. She was as fresh and sweet as a rose, and even if she was an American, she was clearly part of the upper classes, though the rather worn silver bracelet on her wrist looked out of place._

 _"I hope your brothers all come home safely," he managed, sincerely._

 _"They're all fine, from what we've heard so far, but the one in Japan… " she paused, looking pensive. "Well, you're certainly easy to talk to, even with all this racket!" She peered at his helmet. "Sullivan. Of Irish extraction?"_

 _"My grandfather was from County Kerry," Sullivan said before he could stop himself. He had just told her more about himself than he had the men he worked with._

 _She smiled. "A beautiful part of Ireland, and if I remember my history, the Sullivans were kings of Munster, right?"_

 _"Erm… yes, I suppose so." He had never really looked into it.  
_

 _"Have you ever been there?"_

 _He could only shake his head, trying to take his eyes off her long enough to watch the crowds, but he couldn't stop looking at her. She was easily the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, and he supposed he was reacting to her in the same way any healthy, red-blooded twenty-three-year old would. Considering he had kept away from women as much as he could throughout his life, as they were only a distraction from his goals, this was more than a little alarming._

 _The royal family had gone back inside, but the crowds were still roiling about, and he knew that soon they'd starting yelling "We want the King!" again. Considering how sick that man usually looked, he wasn't sure George VI could endure much longer, poor man, however happy this day was for everyone. The King never looked as though he felt well._

 _"You should go. It's beautiful. Even lovelier than Scotland, though my grandfather would never forgive me if I said that around him!"_

 _"Perhaps."_

 _She smiled, and he had to force himself to look away again._

 _"All these people, kissing total strangers. Very unseemly, don't you think?"_

 _"It's a natural response," Sullivan said, putting his hands behind his back like a proper bobby should. "The circumstances being what they are… "_

 _"Well, my name is India Collins," she said, and he glanced at her. He wasn't prepared all, then, when she tugged on his lapel and pulled him down for a kiss, her mouth softly brushing his and opening, boldly inviting him in. He kissed her back and felt her arms slip slowly around his neck and her fingers pushing his helmet off as he slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer, losing himself in her entirely, kissing her almost desperately._

 _A whistle blowing jerked him back into the real world—all that warmth and sweetness—and he released her, looking around, feeling hunted. If his superiors had seen him, he would be done for. But all he saw was two bobbies chasing a man through the crowds, right towards him. India gasped as he gently but firmly set her aside and went after the man, who was carrying a purse that was clearly not his. Sullivan took off at a flat sprint, thanking those Army surgeons again for doing a right good job on his knee, and tackled the purse snatcher before he could get too deep into the crowds. The man struggled, rolling over, and landed a punch in Sullivan's jaw. He saw stars, but that didn't stop him, and he got to his feet and dragged the man up with him, giving him a hard knee to the stomach. The purse snatcher made no further attempts at escaping after that, and in fact, seemed relieved to just sit down on the pavement. The two other bobbies came galloping up, gasping for breath._

 _"Jolly good show, Sullivan," one of them said. "We've been chasing him for two blocks now! Stole a little old lady's purse, the nasty git. Can't you take at least this day off from stealing?"_

 _The purse snatcher just looked put out and Sullivan picked up the purse before it could get lost in the fray. He straightened his uniform and looked around, but India was gone. His helmet was still on the ground, and he snatched it up quickly and put it back on and handed the purse to the other constable._

 _"Anything to report around here, Sullivan?" the constable asked. "This is the only bit of bad behavior we've seen so far today."_

 _"Nothing to report, sir," Sullivan answered, still tasting her on his lips. "Lots of yelling and running about, off-key renditions of 'God Save the King'… that sort of thing. All to be expected. It's a good day all around, I think."_

 _"Aye, very true."_

 _The other two bobbies walked away with their quarry staggering reluctantly along, and Sullivan returned to his post. Revelers danced around him, shouting and singing, but as usual, he did not join in. He never joined in._

* * *

Sullivan woke up to the sound of whistles blowing outside, and he sat up, gasping when he realized he was still in his office. He had fallen asleep, his forehead on his arms. He rubbed his face and went out to the loo to wash his face and comb his hair, noting that he looked exactly how Goodfellow had described him the other day: like death served on a cracker. Feeling miserable, he went back to his office for his coat and hat, then went out into the bullpen. A few constables were standing around, chatting, and they looked at him warily—he didn't approve of people just standing around jabbering when there was work to be done.

He cleared his throat and tightened his tie a bit. "I'm going out for… " he glanced at the clock above the door and winced. "Lunch."

"Aye, sir," one of the constables—Barnstable—said. "Some of us are going out to the Red Lion tonight… wettin' Lonnigan's new baby's head an' all. Want to come along?"

Lonnigan had a new baby?

"Um… er… thank you, but… I haven't been sleeping well lately. I think I'll turn in early tonight, if I can. Congratulations, Lonnigan. B-boy or girl?"

"Wee baby girl," Lonnigan said with a happy smile. "We're namin' 'er Clementine. After three boys, the wife's over the moon to finally have a daughter to spoil. So am I, truth be told." The other men clapped him on the back, grinning. They all had wives and little ones at home. Sullivan went home to books, a sketchpad, and a radio. He had no time for a dog and its demands and he considered cats to be cruel, deceitful creatures. He had no place for a horse, though he had always wanted one…

"Very good. Your wife is well?"

"Already up an' about, sir."

"Excellent. I'm very happy for you and… and… er… "

"Mary."

"Right. Right. Congratulations. You must be very proud, and very relieved, and I'm glad to hear they're both doing well." Sullivan swallowed, uneasy at having so many people staring at him. Was his tie crooked? He checked it, nodded, and fled out into the street. Gasping for air, he was chased all the way across the street and into the fish'n'chips shop by his memories and regrets.

* * *

India had always been slightly intimidated by Errington Castle, and she knew David wasn't terribly fond of it himself. He and Clare lived in the old Gate House instead, though with their family growing by one almost every other year, they would inevitably have to either take up residence in the castle itself or clear out the Dower House and move in there. Since the Dower House was allegedly haunted, she knew Clare would have no part of that without a fight or an exorcism.

She sat in the Rolls Royce, clutching the pot of geraniums, and nearly jumped out of her skin when Sid opened the door. Her sons tumbled out and went running into the castle. She allowed Sid to help her out, and he collected the flowerpot from her. "It's a gift," she whispered to him. "To Clare. She loves flowers but hates cut flowers. So I bring her a pot every time I visit. Unfortunately, she has a black thumb. When she stops to smell the roses, they're afraid." She sighed sadly, taking the pot back from Sid. "This poor geranium will be dead as a hammer by tomorrow evening."

Sid had to turn around to keep the Duke and Duchess of Errington, coming down the steps from the main entrance to the castle, from seeing his laughter. India smiled brightly at her brother and sister-in-law and hugged them both. "It's so good to see you, Clare. You're looking well… how is little Emma?"

"Growing faster than I can find clothes for her," Clare said. She had a very strong Texas twang, more sharply western than India's gently drawling Hill Country accent. For all her lack of talent for raising flowers, she was a warm, friendly woman and an excellent cook, and when her children and India's two boys came tumbling out of the mansion, all clamoring for their respective parents' attention, she was calm and patient with them all. "You need to come to the Gate House and see her. She's just started to roll over on her own."

"Oh, that's wonderful." India handed the sacrificial geranium to Clare, who admired it and carried it with her into the castle. Sid lit a cigarette and leaned against the Rolls, awaiting his next set of orders. He wasn't sure if he was staying at the castle or if India would send him back to Lady Felicia's. He was fine either way—this castle was something to see, and he wandered off for a self-guided tour.

* * *

"We're thinking of starting a winery out at Buchanan," David told India. "The ground is just right for Sauvignon Blanc and Chardonnay."

"A bit dry, though, and you know how the heat can be. Overwhelming," India reminded her brother, looking absently across the snow-dusted green lawn that stretched out away from the terrace at the back of the castle—the winter weather had not affected the grass just yet, though the trees were bare, and the thick clouds were the right shade of pearl-grey to indicate snow was coming soon. "Remember that Napa Valley wine tour we went on last year?"

David laughed. "I remember them asking you if you preferred the Chardonnay, the Chenin blanc, the Sauvignon, or the pinot noir, and you said you couldn't remember getting in the car."

India giggled. "At least _you_ can remember!"

"How is this trip, so far? Or should I say, extended stay? You've bought that Applewood place, right?"

"Yes. It came relatively cheap, but repairs and upgrades will cost enough to use up the budget I set. It's a beautiful place, and very peaceful. Surrounded by apple orchards, so I'm thinking of putting that to use. I'll try my hand at hard cider, even. Anyway, I know I count on you to help out, and I'm calling in reinforcements from Duncan and Lachlan—they're already on their way as I speak, but will stop in London for a few days to dither about."

"Clever lass, thinking of putting the apples to use. How many trees?"

"I counted about fifty. I would have preferred peaches, actually, but apples will do."

"I think so. Your apple pie is worth killing for."

"I'd rather people just eat the pie and drink the cider."

The cold wasn't bothering either of the Collins siblings. They sat on the terrace, sipping after-dinner (luncheon) wine and watching the children play. It was good for her boys to get outside in the sunshine as much as possible, and they got on well with the Collins boys and little Alice, who was almost too small to keep up, but she was managing. There were no nannies or nurses about—Clare was as sensible and level-headed as a cow pony and always seemed to know what her kids were up to, and two extra boys to corral was nothing to her. Childhood injuries were taken in stride, foolishness was to be expected and gently but firmly corrected. Willful disobedience and backtalk were met with swift and painful justice, without exception, partiality or malice. The twelve-year-old future Duke of Eddington, Andrew Collins (Marquess of Deveringham) was home for the Christmas break from Eton, and he was already showing signs of being a strong-willed, generous and intelligent young man, like his father.

"So how are you doing, Indigo?" David asked her, putting down his glass of wine.

"I'm all right, I suppose."

"Not missing Fritz as much as you did before you left Buchanan, though." He smiled at her, and she sighed. Her brother was extremely good at reading her—annoyingly so.

"No." She looked down at the ring still on her finger. "Almost three years now. Is it terrible that I haven't cried in almost a year now?"

"No. From what I saw of your marriage, you had no regrets with regard to him. He was a good man and he treated you very well, and you treated him well—so much _amiability_ , in fact, that you had two fine boys together. What's to grieve over? Was there anything you didn't say to him?"

India's cheeks pinked and she looked down. She had never told him about Alex Sullivan. Not one word. Not even a hint, or so she hoped. "I can't think of anything."

"What about that copper? Mother said you were seeing an Irish East End copper, back when you were a bit _too_ young." He tossed back his wine, and raised his hand, cutting India off. "Come on. You know Mother never had a still tongue."

"He was _police officer_ —he had left that part of London long before, and that shouldn't have made any difference anyway. Pedigree only counts in horses and dogs, and I hate the term 'copper'. It's disrespectful, to say the least."

David only smiled at her, taking his chastisement well. "His pedigree or lack thereof wouldn't matter to me, either, but it did to Mother, though she didn't actually say the _officer_ was a bad sort—in fact, she said he was a good-looking fellow and had some… how did she put it… 'tough Irish Thoroughbred quality' to him, and you know she admired the Irish a great deal: she said they were as tough as any Confederate rebel. Can't say she picked the wrong horse for you, in the end, though, and you can't deny her credit for thinking of your welfare. She wanted what was best for you, and God knows she loved us all, with or without stickers in our socks and dirt in our nails."

India tossed back the last of her wine and determined in herself to stay on course with David, and not veer into Sullivan territory if she could help it. She was still reeling from her encounter with him yesterday. Fritz was a safer subject. He had never failed her, and she truly had no regrets with regard to her marriage to him, so perhaps her brother was right: had she and Fritz not gotten along, she would have more mourning to do. As it was, she was through mourning, and Fritz would hate to see her wallowing about in sorrow anyway.

"I was ready for Fritz's death… which sounds awful, but he was ready, too. At the end, he was just so tired of barely being able to breathe any more. They were so nasty to him at Dachau… " She shuddered at the stories (carefully edited, she could tell) Fritz had told her. His nightmares were a testimony of what he had gone through, and the courage and strength he had shown in surviving. She was immensely proud of him for what he had done—he had taken a firm stand against Hitler and any form of hate, and had endured the resulting abuse without yielding. Just the same, had the Americans not arrived at the camp, he might not have survived, and it had taken all his remaining strength to survive evacuation and transport to England. Then he had been treated rather unfairly by shadowy figures in the British government until Mr. Churchill sent a telegram telling them to stop being stupid gits, read Fritz's exemplary record and get him the care he needed.

"He was a good egg. The fact that the damned Nazis went after him was proof enough of that." David shook his head. "God help us if we get into another war like that one."

India knew her brothers, particularly Logan, would bear the scars of the war for the remainder of their lives. She could only pray her sons and nephews would never have to experience anything like it. It was bad enough that her youngest brother, Matthew, was now serving in Korea in the US Army (Collins men were almost always US Army men), but he was doing well, at last report, despite everyone insisting on calling him 'Lord'.

"India, there's a phone call for you," Clare called from the doorway. "Lady Felicia Montague."

India took the phone and sat down in the lounge, putting Nazis and dead geraniums out of her mind for now.

"Good afternoon, India. I hope I'm not bothering you."

"Hardly. The conversation was getting a bit gloomy. What's going on?"

"Are you by any chance coming back here tonight?"

"I don't think so. I'm going to spend the evening here at the Castle and then go riding with the boys in the morning. I'll come home after luncheon, and David will send me and the boys back in his more reliable car, Hopefully, I'll only imposition you for a few days more before the sale is final on Applecross and I can start moving in there."

"You're no imposition at all, darling! I'll see you then. Could you send Sid on back? I have an engagement this evening and need him to drive me."

"Of course I will. Thank you, and see you tomorrow." She rang off and sent a servant to find Lady Felicia's chauffer and tell him to go home. India curled up on the couch and closed her eyes, thinking not of her husband but of the rather dour but sweet-natured man she had once known, back in London, when her life had been so much less complicated and the world seemed to be starting itself over again.

* * *

"Inspector Sullivan! Inspector Sullivan!"

He sighed when he heard the all-too-familiar voice of one of Kembleford's leading (i.e., most adept at gossip) citizens. He couldn't step outdoors without being dragged into the vortex of Kembleford's citizens' lives. If it wasn't someone being murdered (how Kembleford wasn't a ghost town mystified him), it was someone coming to him with some bizarre complaint. Sooner or later, he was sure someone was going to require him to climb a tree to rescue a cat.

There was no avoiding this old bat, apparently. He turned and faced Mrs. Willis, who was coming toward him. In summer, she was always wearing some frothy floral number and what looked like a pot of geraniums on her head, but in winter she was wrapped up in an incredibly thick fur coat, with a fur hat and fur gloves. He looked down and saw her feet were encased in thick, leather, fur-lined boots.

She looked like a cross between a sea lion pup and Winston Churchill. The effect was not exactly pleasing to the eye.

"Yes, Mrs. Willis."

"The neighbor's dogs are at it again!"

When she had come flouncing into his office for the first time, almost a year ago, she had presented him with a list of offenses, real and imagined, from her neighbors. Cats killing birds at her feeders. Dogs either soiling her yard, digging her garden, or barking. Plus pigeons were leaving contributions on her car and she wanted someone assigned to the job of driving them away ("Yes, ma'am, we'll call in Officer Byrd—he joined the constabulary with just that duty in mind. He even took a special class for it," he had said, but she had no appreciation whatsoever for sarcasm, much less irony). When he suggested she get a dog to chase the cats and a cat to chase the pigeons, she had not been amused. Their relationship had thus continued onward at a steady rate of mutual distaste. She was constantly comparing him to her old friend, Inspector Root, who had apparently been a man of either inestimable patience or hardness of hearing because he had never killed Mrs. Willis, bless him. Granted, she had found Inspector Valentine to be entirely unsatisfactory as well, as he had just told her to sod off.

Inspector Root, lucky bugger, was buried in the churchyard at St Mary's, undoubtedly relieved to be free of dogs, cats, pigeons and sea lions.

"I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am, but I… "

"I want you to talk to them!"

Sullivan took a slow, deep breath. He had sent constables to speak to the neighbors already. They had attempted to reason with them—and they were being pretty damned stupid, putting their dogs out every night to let the wretched beasts yap away, nonstop, until dawn, when they would finally bring them back in. But his hands were tied by how the British loved dogs, and he knew that there was little chance that the courts would do much to alleviate her torment. The two dogs—ill-humored little West Highland terriers—were a nuisance, but they were not at all a menace so long their victims could outpace them. Considering the dogs were both obese and elderly, that wasn't difficult.

"I'll talk to Mr. and Mrs. Ridgely as soon as I can."

"Now! I've not had a good night's sleep in almost a week now."

Tell me about it, Sullivan thought grimly. "Good day, Mrs. Sea—er, Willis." He turned and walked away as fast he could without running.

* * *

 _"Some damned Kraut has bought Applecross!"_

 _There was a long silence on the phone line. "Calm down. What Kraut?"_

 _"Don't know 'er name, but it was German. Alt-something."_

 _"Altburg?"_

 _"Yes, that's it."_

 _"Well, it's not like she'll find anything. There's too much snow, and the ground is too hard now for digging. It's all covered up quite well, a good distance from the house."_

 _"Still, we can't risk it."_

 _"Granted."_

 _"She's got two little boys, I think. Saw 'em with 'er in town. You know they'll go digging about and are bound to find… "_

 _"No one will find anything, you damned fool. Now shut up and let me think a bit. I'll call you when I have a solution. Meanwhile, keep your mouth shut and stay out of Kembleford until I contact you. Understood?"_

 _"Yeah. But I ain't about to lose a fortune like that, 'specially not to some damned German!"_

* * *

"Mr. Ridgely."

The prosperous-looking man eyed Sullivan, surprised to see him on his doorstep. "How can I help you?"

"Inspector Sullivan. Kembleford police. Mrs. Willis is complaining about the dogs."

"Oh, bloody hell, they're not doing anything to her."

"Not physically, but you can surely see how they might do mental damage. Is it really that unreasonable to let her have peace in her own home?"

"She can sleep during the day. We don't want them in the house during the night. We can't get up every few hours to put them out to do their business."

Sullivan sighed. He cast about, thinking, then remembered a (delightfully) horrible story he had heard once, from an American he had met a few years ago. "Mr. Ridgely, I once read of a man who had a Collie that he would put out in his yard, every day, at six in the morning and would not bring it back in until he returned from work at six in the evening. The dog would bark, nonstop, until his owner returned. The neighbors begged him to make the dog stop barking, and he told them to just work their schedules around the dog, and it wasn't hurting them anyway. Finally, one day, a neighbor was in their yard, collecting something from the potting shed, and was going back inside, with the dog barking away, and suddenly he heard a gunshot and the dog stopped barking for good."

Ridgley looked a horrified. "That's cruel!"

"Depends on your point of view. I don't approve of shooting dogs, though shooting dogs is near the bottom of my list of wicked things to do, with homicide being at the top. But which is crueler: torturing your neighbors via your dog or neglecting the dog to the point that it barks nonstop for attention? Either way, it's abusive and can result in tragedy. What if your dogs are warning you of an intruder some night, instead of just barking to bark, and someone breaks in and slashes your throats while you sleep? Who would know the difference? The killer would be long gone before anyone would realize anything was amiss. Then it's a major news story: _Couple Dies Because Barking Dogs Were Ignored by Weary Neighbors_."

The man frowned at him, but Sullivan could see the wheels turning. A bit slowly, perhaps, but maybe it had finally clicked.

"All right. We'll work somethin' out."

"Thank you. Good afternoon." Sullivan tipped his hat and turned to leave. Mrs. Ridgely was coming up the path with the two miscreants in question, and the dogs barked at him, panting between each yap. Unlike most Englishmen, Sullivan was not very keen on dogs, so he sidestepped them and continued on his way, heading back to the station to catch up on paperwork.

* * *

"I'm sorry, who?"

"Lord Edgefield. The Earl of Edgefield. He's very nice and you two might hit it off."

India looked at her brother, who made a 'don't look at me!' gesture, then at Clare. "Really, Clare, I don't know that I'm really… ready for that."

"He's only having lunch here, not dragging you to the altar. If there's no spark, there's no spark, and he's nicer than most. Very charming and good-looking, and his mother was an American, so he savvies our lingo."

India sighed and glanced at the dying geranium. She had no idea what Clare did to potted plants, but there was never any hope for them in her presence, and the poor gardener trembled whenever she went into the greenrooms. She recalled a distant relative who was quite the same way, except she had been incredibly thin and haughty and killed plants by trying to love them.

"I don't know that India is looking for a spark now, Clarie-love," David said, kissing his wife's cheek. "But Lord Edgefield is a nice enough fellow. Served with distinction in the war, several medals, is kind to his horses and dogs… "

"Oh, well, that seals the deal," India said dryly. "How is he towards women?"

David laughed. "Come on, Indigo, it's just lunch, and you and Clare are doing the cooking. He'll be too busy stuffing his piehole to be thinking of courtship."

"Be sure and call me the 'Dowager Princess von Altburg'. He'll think of me as an old biddy. Clare, see if you can find an attachable wart or two for me, too." India said, once Clare was out of earshot. "By the way, when is Granny coming?"

"She's staying in Buchanan until next summer, I'm afraid. She can't handle long journeys at sea as she once did, and winter is getting hard on her, even in Texas. Her letter arrived last night, in fact, and she sent her love and a recipe for some kind of cake."

"Oh! What kind?"

Clare reappeared with a card. "Lemon bundt. It sounds sinful."

"Just my kind of cake. Come on, let's get on with that first. Make dessert first, then dinner, as that always guarantees the quality of the meal."

* * *

India and the Duchess took off their shoes and went to work in the kitchen, first preparing the bundt cake and gossiping happily about everything from the latest fashions to who was marrying, divorcing and sleeping with who, then discussed local politics a bit before going over what to make for dinner.

Being from Texas, neither could ever remember to call the afternoon meal 'lunch' and the evening meal 'dinner'—to them, 'dinner' was the afternoon meal and 'supper' was the evening meal, and they were thus constantly bewildering their English contemporaries. Just the same, Clare had sent the Earl of Edgefield an invitation to lunch at the castle, and to bring along another couple. The children would eat out in the solarium, where they were more easily hosed off afterward.

"I think we should make chicken fried steak," India said, sitting cross-legged on the countertop in the kitchen's center island and flipping through Clare's recipes—as if she really needed to write them down. "Gravy, green beans, okra, whipped potatoes, and some nice cathead biscuits. We'll throw in a salad, too, to pretend we're health-conscious."

"Oh, you make the biscuits. My hand is too heavy with them."

"Maybe, but your cornbread is always better than mine, and nobody can beat your banana cream pie." India hopped down, in her element. She loved cooking, and sometimes thought about either teaching a cooking course (God knew that kind of thing was needed in England) or opening a restaurant. She hadn't had enough nerve yet, though, to try either. Just the same, she was constantly trying new recipes and used her sons and servants as guinea pigs, so her servants adored her and her sons would rather die than miss a meal. "There's a woman in Kembleford who apparently has earned prizes for her strawberry scones. The first time I heard the word 'scone' I thought it had something to do with that silly game they play in Canada-you know, shoving big round stones across ice fields?"

Clare laughed. "Might as well—some scones are as hard as rocks. English cooking… ugh… their pastries are okay, sometimes, but the rest… horrifying!"

"I know. They can ruin bacon. How can somebody ruin bacon?"

"I don't know, but they certainly do their best." Clare got the flour and a packet of yeast down from the cabinet, handing them to India. "David says that British cuisine is based on a dare, and though I hate to say it, as most English folks are very nice themselves, he's right. I went to a party last week at some Marquess's house and they thought they were treating me by serving what they _called_ Texas barbecue. I wanted to call the police and report an attempted murder, if only for what they did to that poor brisket." She leaned in and whispered. "They boiled the beef, India. _Boiled_ it, then slathered it in something they called mustard barbecue sauce. I brought my piece home and buried it after a proper eulogy."

India giggled. "They just don't get it. French cuisine is based on a practical joke, because I can't imagine that whoever came up with escargot was being serious when they asked somebody else to eat a snail. I've found a few things they make over here that aren't so bad. Like those little cucumber sandwiches. They served those to me at tea, at the Savoy, and I said they were good and to bring me about sixty of them, as by then I was starving." She looked in the icebox. "But… beans at breakfast? With coffee and sausages? What a grand idea—fill me up with coffee and beans, and send me off into the streets to get stirred up… my, just imagine the results!" She found a package of round, tenderized steaks. "Oh, very nice!"

"Always prepared," Clare said. "I've got fresh okra and cut green beans ready to get started, and some fatback to put in with the beans. That gravy recipe you sent me worked out perfectly, and so I have a tin of it always on hand, in the cabinet." She shuddered. "Don't even get me started on what the British call 'gravy'!"

Both women shuddered.

India found the ingredients and began prepping the biscuits first, then went to work on the lemon bundt cake. Clare kept a pristine, meticulously organized kitchen, and so India kept to her own assigned space and soon had the biscuit dough rising in a bowl and the lemon bundt cake was in its mold and baking. She tore some lettuce apart and began preparing a salad of spinach leaves, lettuce, celery and tiny tomatoes.

The two women worked perfectly together, never even getting in each other's way. The men stayed out of the kitchen, knowing their place, and just as India was pulling the biscuits out of the oven (a dozen, each one fluffy and so light they would need butter and strawberry jam to keep them from floating away) and turning off the burners, the front doorbell rang. The whipped potatoes, buttered and seasoned with just salt and pepper, were ready, kept warm in the oven until ready to serve. The bundt cake smelled heavenly. The chicken fried steaks were perfectly done. The green beans were being kept warm in a chafing dish, swimming happily in a light butter sauce, and the okra sizzled softly in a bowl.

"Oh, Lordy, CFS and pod of the gods," David said, coming in to take a quick look, stealing a piece of fried okra before his wife could slap his hand away. "Green beans?"

"Of course!" Clare said. "Are the guests here?"

"Lord Edgefield, his sister, and her husband. They won't know what hit 'em."

"A decent meal, that's what," Clare said. "I swear, India, I think most of the folks who left England for the Americas were just looking for something edible. Just wait 'til these folks eat your biscuits. They will have nothing but disdain for scones from now on, strawberry or otherwise." She put all the biscuits into a wicker basket, covered them with a light cloth, and looked around. "All's ready. I have to go up and make myself ravishing."

David kissed his wife passionately and whispered something in her ear that sounded like a promise of a different kind of ravishing later. India removed her apron, checked herself in the mirror in the powder room, finger-combed her hair and was satisfied with a simple light green dress, matching shoes and the Eddington pearl and emerald necklace, on loan from Clare. Right at the stroke of twelve, the Duchess of Eddington and the Dowager Princess von Altburg appeared together in the doorway to the front drawing-room, ready to meet their guests.

* * *

It took three tries for Sullivan to get a few minutes to even eat his lunch-his first two tries had both ended with someone demanding his attention. He finally just gave up, sat down on a wall near the constabulary and chewed miserably on his fish, letting the cold be his punishment. He could only hope no one would disturb him this time, as his stomach was growling so loudly he was sure people in passing cars could hear it. He was just finishing up when he spotted Father Brown and Mrs. McCarthy walking up, both bundled in warm coats. Oh, what fresh hell is this, he thought bitterly.

"Good afternoon, Inspector."

Sullivan hopped down from the wall, brushing crumbs off his coat. Mrs. McCarthy _tsked_ at him. "You'll catch your death!"

"I'm all right," Sullivan answered, a bit too sharply.

"You don't look all right," Father Brown said. "You look quite exhausted."

"Indeed, and after your spectacularly bad behavior at Lady Felicia's, it's no less than what you deserve," Mrs. McCarthy said. "Shameful, to speak so rudely to a young lady of quality. Or any young lady, truth be told!"

Sullivan drew in his breath and was relieved when Father Brown gently nudged his companion aside. "The Princess indicated that she knew you back in London, some years ago."

"Um… yes. We… were… acquainted." Sullivan sighed, running a hand through his hair and knowing where this conversation was going. "Listen, Father. With all due respect, it's bad enough that you interfere in my investigations. Must you also interfere in my life?"

"What life?" Father Brown asked him gently.

The harried inspector threw his lunch bag away with perhaps too much force and not much foresight, because he also discarded his remaining chips. He had to restrain himself from grabbing Brown's umbrella and belaboring him and Mrs. McCarthy with it. "Good day to you both," he said, barely avoiding spitting the words out. He turned and stalked away, back toward the constabulary. A passing car went through a puddle and splashed cold water all over him.

Sullivan closed his eyes, the cold water doing little to improve his temper. For a moment, he stood there, soaking wet, shivering and cursing his entire life. Or lack thereof. He glanced at Father Brown and Mrs. McCarthy and was surprised that neither looked amused, but instead they only looked sympathetic. He turned on his heel and strode away, towards his lonely cottage, to change clothes and draw this awful day to its close.


	4. Chapter 4

"All right, any broken bones?" Sullivan managed, gasping a little but still managing to remain upright.

Lonnie Garson and his brother Lennie were huge men, both well over six and a half feet tall and tipping the scales, together, at the same weight as a Clydesdale. Unfortunately, neither man had the sweet disposition of any kind of draft horse, but were instead violent and dangerous criminals. Their most recent misadventure had been to get into a brawl in the Red Lion, breaking furniture, Christmas decorations, glasses, bottles, a dartboard (broken over the head of Sid Carter, no less, which made Sullivan's day), a rather nice painting of Persimmon, a risqué painting of a drunk naked girl, three bottles of expensive cognac, and one constable's helmet, which was lying in a corner, ruined, forgotten and unloved.

"'m all right, sir," Barnstable said, rubbing his already blackening eye. The other constables were checking each other as well, noting injuries. Goodfellow had lost a tooth, Warren had a cut on his hand that would need stitching, Mills had a goose egg on his head, and the others had minor cuts and scrapes and bruises, but they had all performed magnificently. If the bar hadn't collapsed when Lennie had finally run out of steam and landed on it, Sullivan would have called for a round.

So much for poor Clementine Lonnigan's head-wetting, Sullivan thought sadly, surveying the wreckage of what should have been a nice celebration.

The two men had come in, started arguing with another patron over a poorly aimed dart (so it had hit Lonnie, but the man had a steel plate in his head, so how could it have done much damage?), some unhelpful Anglo-Saxon terminology regarding mothers, genitalia and sexual prowess were thus exchanged, and chaos had ensued. Sid Carter had regained consciousness just moments after Lennie went down, and he looked irritated at having missed most of the fun. Sullivan really couldn't charge him with anything, either, as he had been one of the first of the pub patrons to go down, and he had been trying to stop the fight.

Sullivan had been rousted from his bed at just before midnight, and had come in with six constables, and not even that had been enough. Six other pub patrons, the publican and the publican's wife and daughter had all had to throw themselves into the fray. He was currently sitting on Lennie's back, the huge man sprawled face down on the floor. He had had to put the Lennie in a chokehold and could only hang on while the mountainlike man bucked, screamed and cursed until he ran out of oxygen and destroyed the bar.

"I don't envy him the headache he'll have tomorrow," Sullivan muttered, and was surprised when Carter helped him up. He winced, feeling his bad knee popping and pain searing up his leg. "Damn." He looked around the wrecked pub, and saw the poor publican standing there, twisting his cap and looking bereaved. The man's wife and daughter were already cleaning up broken glass. Lonnie, slumped against the wall, collared in by the remains of a chair the publican's daughter had smashed over his head to finally knock him out, was starting to twitch, and the constables were on him, truncheons ready. When he opened his eyes and saw twelve disheveled but unhappy men glaring at him, however, he decided to call it quits.

"I'll be glad when the Christmas season ends. It brings out the worst in everybody," Sullivan muttered. "Good God, is anyone left at the station?"

"Just Wellesley."

He rubbed his forehead and was alarmed to see blood on his hand.

"Oi, Sullivan, you've got a nasty cut there," Carter said, looking sympathetic.

"And another on your cheek," Lonnigan said cheerfully.

"Yes, thank you," Sullivan growled. His back hurt, from Lennie turning around and slamming him against the wall three times in his attempt to throw him off—that had knocked the air out of Sullivan's lungs, but he had hung on: he wasn't Irish for nothing, after all. He had wrenched his shoulder in the process of bringing Lennie down, his knuckles were raw, and he felt slightly dizzy from being tossed about like a cowboy on a bull, but by God, he could mark this fight up as a win… though the collateral damage didn't make it feel like much of a triumph.

He sighed and staggered over to the only remaining chair and sat down, yelping when it almost tipped him out—it was on its last three legs.

"Come on, let's get him home before he keels over," Carter said. "I wish I had been awake through all this."

"I wish I had been asleep," Sullivan muttered and didn't resist when two constables hauled him up and all but carried him out into the bitterly cold night.

* * *

"Your Highness, I still find it hard to believe that I've just eaten an American-style meal prepared by a Duchess and a Princess," the Earl of Edgefield was saying, jerking India from her thoughts. Her mind had wandered back to Kembleford and a tall, sharp-dressed police inspector. She cursed herself for being so susceptible to him, after all these years. If she ever saw Alex Sullivan in his uniform again, she knew she'd just melt.

"Oh, well, cooking is something Clare and I both enjoy immensely," she said, smiling absently. The Earl, seated across from her in the lounge at the Gate House, was swirling some wine in a glass. His sister sat beside him, and her husband—a rather grey man whose name India couldn't remember—had taken a seat by the window and gone right to sleep.

"It was a delicious meal," the Earl's sister, Penelope, said. "What was it called again?"

"Chicken fried steak."

"That's a Southern dish, I assume."

"Very much so. Yankees… Northerners… barely know what it is," Clare said with a laugh. "I'll credit Boston with her wonderful baked beans and Philadelphia with her cheesesteaks, but I'll remain tactfully silent on anything they try to make that originally came up out of the South, and when they ask how they did when they try, I'll just try to be vague."

India hid a snicker in her wineglass. Clare was only silent on that matter in mixed company, and when asked for her opinions, she was never vague. She and India both had some very strong opinions on Yankee attempts at just making iced tea correctly.

"My mother was from New York," the Earl said. "Alas, she never really learned to cook." He took a sip of his wine. "Wonderful body." He looked at India, and she sensed that he wasn't really talking about the wine. "So you live in Kembleford now?"

"I do. Or I will. I've almost finalized the purchase of Applecross."

"Ah, I know of it," Edgefield said. "Lovely old place. I believe I know the head of Kembleford's local constabulary somewhat… Solomon or suchlike?"

Penelope poured herself another glass of wine and sipped it, looking at David with undisguised interest whenever Clare wasn't looking. India found that rather unpleasant, and took another larger swig of wine.

"Sullivan," India corrected him, a bit too quickly, earning Clare's curious look. "I've met him, somewhat accidentally." She tossed back the rest of her wine and poured in another dollop.

"A rather grumpy man," Lady Penelope said. "Good-looking, but icy, and he arrested our uncle last year."

The Earl of Edgefield gave his sister a sharp look, and she shrugged.

"Really? What did he do?" Clare asked.

The Earl smiled and shrugged. "We were never entirely sure, but he had a penchant for walking around naked. When he wanted blinds for his house, let's just say the neighbors had no objections to pitching in to pay for them. Tell me, Your Highness, what do you think of this wine?"

He and his sister had brought a rather old bottle of a Loire Valley chardonnay and had talked about the wines of France, Germany, and California at length during dessert. She cared little about discussing the qualities of wine. A glass during a meal, perhaps a glass of sherry after dessert, and that was quite enough for her, and she saw no reason to jabber on endlessly about it. David preferred to drink beer, though he knew everything there was to know about about wine. Clare, meanwhile, never touched alcohol but she had a sense of smell that was the envy of every vintner in California—she knew what a wine would taste like just by sniffing it. None of them ever drank to get drunk, that was for sure, though India knew she was a total lightweight.

"Oh… a bit cheeky, quite fresh and light, not overly sweet; full and firm but not too much so, a touch of spice, and with just the mildest hint of danger." She sipped her wine. "Of course, that also describes me rather well, too."

"Danger? Really? How so?" the Earl asked. "You don't look dangerous."

"My sister is dangerous to anyone trying to take advantage of her, and she's spectacularly violent if you try to hurt her babies," David said, swirling his wine before taking an appreciative sip. "She's not a Texan for nothing. Very nice vintage here, Your Lordship. Pre-war?"

"Yes. A vineyard belonging to some friends… " Edgefield smiled at India. "I understand your husband was German but opposed Hitler."

"Very much so. He hated the whole notion of not just racial and religious prejudice but also of national socialism and communism, so he was not fond of Stalin, either, and he spat whenever he heard the names Attlee or Eden. Frankly, he was appalled when we allied ourselves with Stalin—he knew the man makes Hitler look like an altar boy. Now Uncle Joe has all of Eastern Europe in his grip. How anyone will survive him I don't know."

David cleared his throat, knowing his sister was becoming annoyed now, and it was best to steer the conversation away from volatile subjects like politics or the results of the Derby. "My brother-in-law was loathed by the Nazis. When they caught him smuggling Jews out of France, they threw him in Dachau."

"How dreadful! The poor man!" Lady Penelope said, though India sensed the woman was only saying that more out of propriety than genuine piety.

India was getting irritated, though she didn't really know why. She looked at Lord Edgefield—lanky, a bit weedy, with a narrow chest and thin shoulders—and couldn't help comparing him to her Alex and finding the peer sorely lacking.

She shook her head, clearing it. She was comparing him to her Fritz, who even while in poor health had been tall, wide-shouldered and built like a bull. She closed her eyes briefly and only saw Alex, and her exhausted, emotional mind only queued up the memory of a tango, under the stars, and that final kiss, before she had told him that it was over.

She had not seen him again until three days ago, and he hadn't changed much at all. Still lean and strong and athletic, with such beautiful eyes and a kind, understanding heart under that gruff, deceptively icy demeanor. And a damned good kisser.

Too bad it had never gone beyond that, she thought, staring into the blood-red depths of her wine glass. If it had, she had no doubt she'd never get him off her mind long enough to cook a proper meal again, and her mother would have had to let them marry…

"You seem rather far away."

India almost spilled her wine. She was suddenly alone in the lounge with the Earl. Her brother and Clare were showing Penelope and her husband (apparently jabbed awake with a fireplace poker) the conservatory. She'd get David for this, later.

"Just… thinking."

"I read quite a bit about your husband. A very good man, Prince von Altburg was. Saved hundreds of Jews and other persecuted souls out of France and Poland, and I hear rumors he did a bit of spying… "

"That's not for me to discuss, and I won't," she said quickly.

"I do apologize."

"A bit of a sore wound," she said softly.

"Three years now, hm?"

"Yes. I was eighteen when I married him, our marriage was quite happy, and we were blessed with two sweet little boys. I genuinely loved him… " She put the glass on the coffee table. "Do you want to marry me, Your Lordship?"

The Earl looked startled and he hesitated. Then he seemed to collect himself. "Only if you're up to it, ma'am. I would be a most congenial husband."

India remained seated, chewing on her lower lip. "I'm somewhat willing to marry again, but not to just anyone. My marriage to the Prince von Altburg was arranged by parties other than himself or I, and even though our union was happy and fruitful, I refuse to marry again for anything but love. I care nothing for money or titles, either, but if I do marry, my husband won't get a penny of the von Altburg fortune, as it's settled entirely on my oldest son and I won't touch what's rightfully his and neither will anyone else unless they want to walk with a limp for the rest of their lives. Sebastian has a very healthy annuity coming to him once he turns eighteen, and that won't be touched by anyone else, either. I personally have sizeable allowances willed to me by my husband, my parents, grandparents and great-grandfather, but I live well within my means and I do not waste money on foolish, uncertain investments, including anything from real estate, business ventures, and silly causes to livestock or anything with the word 'guarantee' as part of its title." She stood up slowly. "I do want more children, but I refuse to live in England unless I'm allowed to visit Texas at least twice yearly, preferably in the spring and at either Christmas or Thanksgiving. If you wish to pay court to me, Your Lordship, you may apply to my brother for his approval. Thank you."

She nodded and left the room, leaving the Earl stunned, and headed upstairs to her room. She closed the door, took off the necklace but not the bracelet and climbed into bed. She lay on her back for a while, staring up at the ceiling, then the walls cracked a bit and she curled up into a ball and cried herself to sleep.

* * *

 _"He giveth snow like wool: He scattereth the hoarfrost like ashes. He casteth forth His ice like morsels: who can stand before His cold?"_

Father Brown smiled happily, looking out at the snow-covered streets of Kembleford. The whole world looked like someone had poured frosting all over it, and the effect was delightful. Mrs. McCarthy had told him that so far, almost a foot had fallen and more was on its way—a real rarity Gloucestershire, and he thanked God for its crisp, glorious beauty and prayed everyone was keeping warm and the children were having as much fun as possible. The priest donned a coat, put his hat on and went out to greet the day.

Children skittered past him, shouting and planning snowball fights. He smiled warmly at young PC Barnstable, who was standing at his post at the corner of Market Street and started to greet him when he saw the cut on the young man's cheek. "Good heavens, what happened to you?"

"Right jolly brawl at the Red Lion last evening. Utter chaos."

"Oh, my. I hope no one was seriously injured."

"Eh, we got knocked about. It was them Garson lads—nasty brutes, they are, and they pretty well wrecked the pub. Sullivan got a few scars, too, bless him. Right scrapper he is—brought Lennie down with a choke hold, despite gettin' smacked against the wall and crackin' a rib. He ain't Irish for nothin', I say."

"Oh… dear… " Father Brown frowned. "He's all right otherwise, isn't he?"

"Aye, he's already at the station, against doctor's orders, but he's been quiet all mornin'."

Father Brown was already hurrying away. This development could cause trouble with his plans, and he preferred that things be as simple as possible. Lady Felicia, however, had reminded him that complications were often the best things to happen to plans such as theirs, so long as the end result was the one they wanted anyway—otherwise, who would ever write a romance novel? Just the same, he had to make sure all was well.

At the station, he was greeted by Goodfellow, who seemed to be nursing a dental issue and thus spared few words. When he asked to see Inspector Sullivan, the sergeant just pointed at the door and nodded.

"Come in!" Sullivan shouted at Brown's knock. The priest ducked his head through and peered warily at the younger man, who was sitting upright in his chair. He was sporting a scar on his forehead and another on his left cheek, though neither was terribly alarming-in fact, they both made him look rather rakish. One hand was wrapped up in a bandage, and he had a bruise on his jaw.

"Good heavens, Inspector, I hope you're all right!"

"I'm… " Sullivan gasped and exhaled slowly. "Well, I'd be lying if I said I was all right, but I'll mend well enough. Are you here about the donations to St. John's?"

"Erm… well, in a manner of speaking."

"What manner of speaking would that be? French? Incomprehensible Scots Highland dialect? Or just poor grammar?"

Brown was never quite ready for Sullivan's occasional flashes of humor. The man was so well known for being serious and professional (if not downright dour) that one forgot that he was not only quite human, but was also not without wit. He paused, waiting, and Sullivan finally gestured for him to take a seat.

"Good grammar, I hope, and English," Father Brown said, sitting down. "We're hoping that you and some of your constables might be willing to attend the auction."

"Attend? What for?" Sullivan looked puzzled, and Brown smiled.

"Well, you see, the Bishop thinks that the children might enjoy seeing policemen at the auction. There's also a bake sale and games and such before the Christmas Gift Fund auction and… "

"Why policemen?"

"I suppose the children might find that rather exciting. You know… cops and robbers… lovely snow, hm?"

The younger man flinched slightly, and nodded, looking out the window at the snowy street. "It's… um… nice enough, I suppose."

Brown had Sullivan pegged right—he clearly wished he was outside, engaging in snowball fights and hurtling downhill on a sled.

"I suppose for us grownups, it's shoveling and scraping ice off car windows instead of having a touch of fun."

Sullivan made a sound that was either a derisive snort or a whimper of pain. It was hard to tell. "So you want a bunch of us over there?"

"Just… a few. Three or four, at most, and… er… yourself, of course."

"Why me?"

"Well, it's… to make it all as official as possible."

"Why would children care if it was 'official' or not, so long as they got a toy for Christmas? As long as the toys haven't been fenced by Sid Carter, I doubt it would make any difference."

"I can assure you, none of the toys will have been fenced. They'll all be purchased fair and square by the ladies on the Women's Institutes here in Kembleford and at Brocklesby, once they have the funds."

"Fine. Whatever."

Sullivan was writing something on a piece of paper, and Brown watched him, curious. He had been surprised to discover that the inspector had considerable drawing skills—his quick sketch of St John's Church had been not only very nice but also remarkably accurate.

"Have you read anything about photographic memory, Inspector?"

The inspector started to lean back but reconsidered on account of his cracked rib and sore back. "I've heard of it."

"Are you so blessed?"

"Cursed." He put the cap back on his fountain pen and set it aside, lining it up carefully beside his appointment book. "Was there anything else, Father?"

"It must be interesting, being able to recall things easily. Images especially."

Sullivan tried to take a deep breath, but that only got him coughing, and Brown was immediately sorry for causing the man pain. Once he stopped and caught his breath, Sullivan rubbed his face. "Considering I see murder victims in various stages of… decay, I can assure you that it's no blessing."

"But surely there are a few pleasant memories. Things you… like to remember."

"Very few and far between." The careful mask of control had settled on Sullivan's face and Brown knew he wasn't likely to break the ice again for now, but he did not miss the hunted look in the man's eyes.

"Well. I will fill you in on further details, and Lady Felicia will be by with final instructions. The auction is set for this coming Friday, to start at seven o'clock on the dot. I do hope you can get outside today to enjoy the snow a bit."

"In what way? My back hurts too much to go sledding and I wrenched my shoulder last night on Lennie Garson's neck, so I can't throw snowballs. Not much to enjoy."

Father Brown gave him a sympathetic smile, pleased to know he was right in believing that Sullivan did actually have a playful side, but the man was looking down at whatever he had started writing. The priest was amused to see that Sullivan had done, in ink, a sketch of the Market Street bridge on the bottom of the page, and concluded that the detective tended to sketch when he was stressed, as a means of soothing his nerves. When he looked up at Brown, the younger man seemed to come out of a haze of some sort, because he looked down at the picture, sighed and crumpled it up and threw it away. "Good afternoon, Father."

Dismissed, the priest left, feeling at least a little better about how things were going.

* * *

India had said nothing to her brother or anyone else about her conversation with Lord Edgefield. She felt completely neutral about the man so far, and frankly, that was best. She didn't want to get into any sort of relationship with anyone, right now—or perhaps ever—that would require that she put forth a lot of soul-searching or trying to decide if he liked her or that she liked him or if they could tolerate each other past just one dinner out or for twenty years. Having someone to go to parties with sometimes, or the theatre or films would be nice, and so long as he didn't put any more meaning into it than absolutely necessary, she was fine with Lord Edgefield. He was…

What was he? Her grandmother might say he was a 'filler', like eating a lot of bread with dinner to avoid overindulging in dessert. But dammit… India was ready for some dessert again. Perhaps not for marriage just yet, but however much she believed in proper behavior and adhering to the moral and religious rules she had been taught from the cradle, she couldn't deny that sometimes, she just wanted a man. Fritz had been a gentle and considerate lover and had never disappointed her in that area, but from what she had heard other women talk about, he had never done whatever it was that could make her eyes roll back in her head.

She didn't mind the snow covering the fields, even as she sat on a sleek former racehorse named Camibah and watched her sons galumph by on their fat ponies. She was relieved to be in a western saddle and was thus much more comfortable. She looked down at the hand-made conchos decorating the saddle, and the beautifully tooled leather. David had bought the saddle in Laredo and Lachlan had personalized it for her, as a sixteenth birthday present. Fritz had commented on the excellent workmanship and admitted that it was far more comfortable than a typical English forward seat.

Camibah was eager to run, so she let him go through his paces, smoothly clearing a low rock wall, her boys following behind. The cold was becoming a bit too bracing, though, and the wind picked up, blowing snow across the fields and onto the ponies' legs, making them buck a bit. "All right, come along back inside and get warmed up. We'll have cocoa and cookies, and if the wind lies down we'll build a snowman," she told them, and they dismounted and led their ponies back to the stable yard, cooling them out properly. They made sure their ponies had water and hay before going inside for their own meal, like good little horsemen. Maximillian was able to do his chores on his own, while Sebastian only needed help putting away his tack, and soon the boys were running back to the castle to go ghost-hunting.

She had soon Camibah cooled out, too, and stood at his head, stroking his nose and blowing into his nostrils, until the horse's eyes were half-closed and his ears were drooping, the picture of relaxation.

"You're an old horse whisperer, Indigo," David said, and she smiled at him. He was repairing a bridle but set it aside. "It's the Comanche Granny swears got into her family line, somewhere along the way, I'm sure."

"It's hardly that, _Daybee_. They're just easy to talk to."

"Edgefield talked to me before he left yesterday."

"I figured he would."

"So you're interested in him?"

She shrugged, still completely ambivalent. "He seems nice enough."

"Enough?"

"Echo? Do I hear an echo?"

David laughed. "Come on, little sister, I won't see you unhappy, particularly after you were happy with Fritz. It's your life now, though, and your money, and you have your own path to take. You're not a young girl any more—you're a grown woman of means who knows her own mind. You can choose your own path. I'm always happy to advise, but I won't drag you in any direction."

"Thank you, but right now I'm just… "

"Biding your time?"

"I suppose you could put it that way."

"Fair enough. You're going back to Kembleford after dinner?"

"Yes. We're going to have cookies and cocoa, and if the wind lies down, we'll build a snowman. If not, you'll take them out later?"

"Of course. All the kids are ready for a battle!"

* * *

Broken rib or not, Sullivan still had to clear the path to his front door, and that took a good bit of time, as he had to keep stopping for gasps of air. The cold didn't help, and his hands were hurting when he finished, but once he got inside and got the fire going, he felt a little better. He drank tea with a dollop of whisky added and fell asleep in his chair, listening to Bach on the radio and dreaming of wide, sparkling blue eyes and soft, sweet lips, and didn't wake up until almost noon the next day.

* * *

Lady Felicia came rushing into the presbytery kitchen, startling Father Brown, who was having to make his own lunch, what with Mrs. McCarthy being unwilling to set foot outside to be pummeled with snowballs. Sid came in behind her, puffing and covered with the remnants of several snowballs that had got him. "Cheeky little blighters!" he was growling, brushing the ice off, and looked around for the lid to the dustbin. He snatched it up, held it in front of him like a shield, and rushed back outside, yelling something about vengeance.

"Lady Felicia," Father Brown said. She sat down, brimming with excitement.

"You saw Inspector Sullivan yesterday, didn't you?"

"Yes, but he's not in the constabulary today, which is very odd," Father Brown.

"Oh, dear, you don't suppose something's happened to him, do you?" she asked, concerned. "I mean, I hear he got knocked about quite a bit the other day… then again, he came away with some very… interesting wounds. If I could get away with it, I'd… "

"Don't say it, Felicia, please." Brown sat down and she slid into a chair, opening up her appointment book.

"Now. I've got at least three dozen folks ready to bid, and I can assure you, they are eager, which gives testimony to what I told you about the current market, so to speak. Now, all we have to do is find some way to trick Inspector Sullivan into wearing his dress uniform… you know, black, with all those dazzling medals and bars… " She sighed. "Very, very handsome, I have to say—if he'd smile more, he could be a matinee idol. Anyway, I know I can get India there, too, and Sid and I are working out how to get the bidding going, as of course, we are raising money to get those children a very large pile of Christmas presents in the offing and… what?" she asked, seeing his concerned expression.

"He has a broken rib."

She was momentarily taken aback, but recovered quickly. "Well, is he able to walk and talk?"

"I think so. Yes."

"Then he can endure this."

"He's not likely to take kindly to being manipulated, Felicia."

"If the result is what it should be, in the long run, he won't mind. Come on, Father, don't get cold feet."

"My feet are already cold."

* * *

Wednesday afternoon was bright, crisp and alarming, to Sullivan, who woke not entirely sure how he had even gotten inside, much less slept for so long. He got up, shaved, dressed and stumbled out into the blinding white world. Snow had fallen again overnight, and all his path-clearing work had been for naught. He had no time to cope with that, though, and walked to the constabulary as snow whirled around him. He got to his office, poured himself a cup of coffee, and sat down, his rib not hurting quite so badly and no headache plaguing him.

He looked out the window (the pane Maximillian had broken already replaced) at the street and sighed. Finally, he gave in to temptation and dug in a lower drawer for his sketchpad and best pencils and pastels. He settled back in his chair and after looking at the scene outside, he drew a preliminary sketch. He drew the storefronts of the fish'n'chips shop, the tiny bookseller's and the curio shop, their doors decorated with Christmas wreaths and ribbons and all nestled together along the icy street, like tin boxes of Christmas sweets. Mrs. Tindall's barely functional Model-T sat in its usual place in front of the curio shop, and the constables had given up on trying to get her to move it. The car was covered with more than a foot of snow now, and the already caved-in roof was letting snow inside, too. During spring and summer, the curio shop owner piled flowers in it, and he had already done a few colored drawings of that.

He finished the main points of the drawing, smoothed it out and went to work tinting the wreaths and ribbons in greens and reds, coloring the sky just the right shade of snow-is-coming gray, and getting the lighting and shading just right. When it was finished, he slipped the drawing into his desk drawer and locked it. Back in school, his instructors had said he had real, natural talent, an eye for color and light and detail that was quite remarkable. He didn't paint anything, finding the process tedious and time consuming, but a quick sketch was easy and relaxing, and he could draw faces and places from memory. He had put aside any fanciful notions of pursuing any sort of career in art long ago, however, because he had to make a living and couldn't eat charcoal and pastel sticks. These days, it was a hobby, and not one he shared with anyone.

India had seen a few his drawings, and he had done a pastel drawing of her sitting on a bench in the park near her house in Pimlico, eyeing a deceptively sweet-looking white cat-fiend named Pookah.

He glanced in the dustbin and saw the crumbled paper with the drawing of the bridge, and rubbed his face. Father Brown had said his drawing of St John's had been good, and though he would never admit it to anyone, he quietly relished the idea of the priest saying such a thing. However much the man irritated him, he was no liar and had an eye for not just detail, but also the bigger picture. One of his art instructors, at school, had reminded him that details were fine in and of themselves, but the bigger picture was what made the drawing. "You needn't count every scale and tooth on the dragon—just make sure the dragon lingers in the viewer's mind, long after he's walked away."

Sullivan got out a few files, settled into his chair and started reading, centering in on less urgent ongoing cases and making notes. He glanced out the window as Sid Carter ran by, pursued by a small herd of shrieking children, and stood up, alarmed, a few minutes later when the children went running by again, back toward St Mary's, chased by the part-time thief, who was carrying what looked like a dustbin cover filled with snowballs.

"None of my business," he muttered, and sat down, picking up the Racing Post instead of a file and doing some truly informative reading for once.


	5. Chapter 5

Thursday morning dawned bitterly cold, with light snow blowing, and Felicia had Sid drive her and India out to Applecross. They passed through the rather derelict gates and into the circular drive, and Sid got out to open the door. India, wrapped up in a what she called a 'duster', thick corduroy trousers and a pair of rattlesnake skin boots, led Felicia into the huge old house, using an ancient skeleton key to unlock the door and having to shove it open.

"Wow."

The front hall was enormous and marble-floored, with a cloth-wrapped chandelier hanging from the ceiling. There was almost no furniture, but what little remained of the previous owners' property was covered in drop cloths. India led Felicia along a long, rather dark passageway to the kitchen and she stood, looking around the enormous, sunlit room, clearly enraptured.

"It's marvelous. The kitchen really was what got me to plunk down the cash," India said. "Look… four ovens, including a beehive, and even though I'm not fond of Agas, I can work with this one 'til I can import one from the States. Refrigerator and two ice boxes, tons of cabinet space, lots of prep space, a pot filler and look through here… a butler's pantry and a caterer's kitchen. We'd call that a summer kitchen back home, but it's got everything on a smaller scale—and look at this fireplace! Ten men could stand in it, and it'll hold a whole side of beef on a spit!"

Sid and Felicia were speechless.

India went on, clearly delighted. "It's perfect, and these stone floors will last a thousand years. What I really love is that the kitchen is separated from the house by that hallway—a very practical feature, in case of kitchen fires."

She opened the French doors that led out onto a east-facing terrace. "I intend to build an outdoor kitchen here, and beyond that little wall over yonder, I'm going to build a barbecue pit. There's a loggia across the other way, past the dining room, directly behind the library, and a lovely gallery upstairs, with the bedroom doors all opening out, and it gets glorious sunshine! I can't wait to start decorating and getting everything updated."

"A barbecue _what_?" Sid asked, having tagged along rather reluctantly, not relishing the idea of being outside again.

"A barbecue pit. A low structure with a chimney at one end, and covered iron grills on two sides, which we make from metal barrels—you can line the insides with wood and run pipes to the chimney. I'll have a workspace between the barrels and preparation spaces, and places for knives and forks, like the one back home at Buchanan, and a crank spit, too, because I know David will want me to slow-roast a goat one day." She sighed happily, thinking of it. "Frankly, barbecue pits look a lot like sacrificial altars, but I don't care. It's the food that matters. I'm going to have to get hickory and mesquite imported out here, but there are greenhouses at the lee side of the house, so maybe I can cultivate a few and maybe plant some of both around the estate for future use—that will require some research, I think, but never mind for now. Until then I can make do with oak. I wonder what apple wood would be like? I've got an orchard of apple trees, see?" She pointed across the fields to a group of bare trees that needed a good deal of pruning back. "I'll have to ask David. It might be too dry. Cedar definitely is, however lovely and _vengeful_ it smells when it's burning. I also need to consult with experts on orchard management, to make sure I treat those apple trees right."

Sid mouthed 'Goat?' at Felicia, who made a 'beats me' gesture in reply.

"Oh!" Felicia said suddenly. "I just remembered, India! There's a charity auction going on out at Brockelsby, for the St John's Orphanage. We've raised more than plenty for the usual necessary supplies, but the auction is to raise money for the children to get a vast pile of lovely toys for Christmas. I'm hoping you'll participate, and I know the little girls will be so delighted to meet a genuine princess."

India had to pull her mind away from visions of her outdoor kitchen, orchard and the barbecue pit. "Oh. Okay. That would be very nice. When?"

"Tomorrow night."

"Oh… " India exhaled. "All right. I can be there."

"Wonderful! Sorry it was such short notice, darling, but if I didn't have my head attached, I'd leave it somewhere, wouldn't I, Sidney?"

Sid was still trying to wrap his mind around the idea of eating a goat, but he nodded quickly. "Right."

"His wit is truly staggering, isn't it? Now, India, let's get back inside before we freeze to death. Good heavens, it's cold. I suppose you'll have workmen out here as soon as the weather warms and can move right in by springtime."

"I'll be moving in tomorrow morning, actually," India said. "And I'll only need a few workmen. David will be helping, and two of my brothers will be coming over from America next week to pitch in, too—Duncan and Lachlan are both already involved in house building, and Duncan is an architect. There are fireplaces in every room inside, and the last owner installed heating and air conditioning to boot, so we'll be just fine."

"But… it's… " Felicia looked around. "Rather primitive."

"Well, I don't mind that. It's not like I'm camping. I hate camping. I consider 'roughing it' to mean there are no mints on the pillows, but so long as I'm indoors and warm I can handle anything. Shall we go back in? I'll whip up some tea and then we'll head on back to Kembleford."

"I hope it's not iced tea, India. Not in this weather."

* * *

Sullivan had to ignore the pain in his side and in his back. He had to pretend his knee wasn't practically screaming for mercy. None of that mattered—he had seen the young man snatch the woman's purse and take off down Market Street toward the bridge, and he had to give chase. Bloody hell, he didn't even have a whistle, and he was too cold to even shout for the little nitwit to stop running—his teeth were chattering.

The boy—a known troublemaker in town—was knocking boxes and carts over in his attempt at evading his pursuer, and the ice and snow were to his advantage, but he hadn't counted on Sullivan's tenacity, much less his natural speed and agility. Youth is wasted on the young, and it didn't help Davy Wilkins either, because he miscalculated his rate of climb up the slight incline and slipped on the ice, losing momentum, and Sullivan brought him down like a champion footballer, knocking him into a pile of snow. He felt his knee popping into the wrong direction, again, and he barely kept from howling in pain, but he kept a firm grip on the boy's collar and was grateful to end up on his back in the snow after tumbling over the purse snatcher.

"I didn't do nothin'!" the boy said, as Sullivan dragged him up to his feet. He was still holding the purse.

"Really? So that's your purse? If it is, it damned well doesn't match your shoes. Come on." He began dragging the boy toward the station and was relieved to get to the kerb and see Goodfellow trotting across, looking amused.

"Good Lord, sir, you look like you've been attacked by a frozen daiquiri."

Sullivan didn't answer. He saw Lady Felicia's Rolls Royce purring by, unimpeded by the icy road, and he saw Felicia and India in the back seat. For a moment, India looked out at him and he felt his stomach tighten and his blood heat up. He almost forgot what he was doing, and it took the boy trying to slither away to bring him back to the present. "Stand still!"

Goodfellow took charge of Wilkins and the purse, dragging him across the street to the station. Once they were inside, Sullivan exhaled, bending over, hands on his knees, and tried to catch his breath. Maybe he should have listened to the doctor and just stayed home. He looked around and finally went into the little curio shop, knowing there was a table and chairs at the window. Mrs. Hartwell, who ran the disorganized little place, looked up at him from her tea and crumpets and smiled.

"Good morning, Inspector Sullivan. Tea?"

"Er… thank you." He collapsed, rather heavily, into the wrought-iron chair and accepted a cup from the old biddy, warming his hands on the hot porcelain. She was pleasant enough, but she talked constantly about her cats to anyone who would listen or had been cornered. One of the cats was sitting on a desk that had (allegedly) once belonged to the Duke of Wellington, staring at him, and he knew better than to stare back because that would make the cat want to come over and get acquainted. Cruel, deceitful creatures, he thought darkly.

"Poor man," Mrs. Hartwell said. "All that running about, and without a coat or hat or gloves!" She tsked at him. "You ought to have a wife, I say. So say all the ladies at the WI. She'd make sure you were kitted out every day before you left the house, and in spite of you being a grump, I've no doubt you'd make some lovely babies."

"I… forgot my coat… " he answered, somewhat weakly, unprepared for and too cold to withstand discussions of wives and babies. "Damn! I left it at Carlisle's!" He had been in the little butcher shop, buying sausages, and had taken the coat off because it was so hot in there. That alone had to be some kind of violation of a health code, but his shopping excursion had been disrupted by Mrs. Dewhurst shouting about her purse being snatched and Davy Wilkins running by.

"Such language! You don't like language like that, do you, Copernicus?"

The cat, sitting on Wellington's alleged desk, seemed almost to glare at Sullivan. He swallowed the tea in one gulp, letting the stuff burn its way down his throat and warm him to his toes. "My apologies. I have to get… er… over to Carlisle's and get my coat… and sausages."

"Have you thought of Christmas gifts, Inspector?"

"For whom?"

"Well, family and friends, silly… maybe a lady friend?" She handed him a biscuit, and he stared down at it, aghast. As if he'd ever send a gift to his father. He got along all right with his cousins in London, but most of his other kin were in prison or should be. He hated to count Father Brown, Mrs. McCarthy and Lady Felicia as his friends, but like it not, they were, and they had helped him immensely during his ordeal after DC Albert's murder. Maybe he could at least send them cards, or buy Father Brown a new umbrella. Mrs. McCarthy had even invited him to a Christmas party she was throwing, and she was kind in her way.

Good grief. His loneliness was getting to him. He needed to get a canary. Something with a heartbeat, anyway, to keep at the cottage. Not a goldfish—too much trouble. A canary might sing, but that might become irritating if it sang too much. He knew of people who kept gerbils and even rats as pets, and that was beyond his ken—wasn't the human race supposed to be working towards eradicating vermin?

He went to rub his face and felt melting snow dripping down his nose.

"Uh… I haven't really given it any thought."

"Typical man. My husband never thought to buy presents until the day before Christmas. One year the daft man gave me a bar of a soap that smelled like olives." She shook her head. "Something as simple as a little trinket would please most girls." The old woman returned to her usual perch at a Royal Doulton-infested desk in the corner. "Look around. I'm sure you'll find something that would make a young lady happy. You're what, thirty-five or so? In your prime, and no wife!" She tsked again, shaking her head.

Sullivan almost growled at the woman, but Copernicus gave him a look and he ate the biscuit instead. Finally, feeling as though he was obligated to at least browse amongst the stacks of mostly feminine fripperies, Sullivan got up and looked idly through some of the shelves, barely interested, until he caught sight of a little pin. It was in the shape of a flower never seen in England—a bluebonnet.

India had searched around in the little greenhouse behind her parents' house in London until she found a real sample of the flower, and had pulled a soft blue petal off and opened it to show him see the 'cat's claw' inside. The little pin was made of some sort of blue rhinestones, apparently inexpensive but fairly shiny, and they were all shaped exactly like the 'slippers' of the bluebonnet. At its top were tiny white faux pearls and glittery rhinestones, with a yellow enamel tip—a near perfect miniature jeweled version of the famous flower from Texas. It was set on a simple green metal stem with delicate gold-colored wiring holding the blue flowers. It was not oversized or clunky at all but was instead remarkably small and quite tasteful, even if it was just cheap costume jewelry. Whoever had made it had some not-inconsiderable skill.

"How much for this?" he asked, holding it up.

"Oh… ten pee," she said, waving her hand absently.

Sullivan dug the coin out of his pocket and handed it to her. He declined to let her wrap it and put it in his pocket. As soon as he was out the door, the old woman snatched up her phone and called Mrs. McCarthy, eager to spread this delicious little piece of gossip.

* * *

 **June 1945**

 _"Don't you dare climb that tree, Madeleine!"_

 _"Why not? Pookah is up there in that tree and he's obviously frightened."_

 _India peered up at the white cat, which had gone up the tree out of (typical) spite and was now crouched on a limb, just out of reach. She knew the nasty little goblin wasn't frightened—he terrorized the dog and immobilized the mailman almost every day. She glared up at the cat, noting its smug expression, and would have spat on him if he had been closer._

 _"Either way, Mama will have me drawn and quartered if you ruin your dress."_

 _Madeleine pouted and shaded her eyes again, looking up at her cat. "Come on, Pookah. Come back down. Good kitty!"_

 _The cat only yawned._

 _They were in a little park near their home in Pimlico, and India been dragged there by her younger sister, who was frantic about Pookah running away and climbing the tree. The spiteful little boggart was licking his paws now, showing no interest in coming down, despite Madeleine's pleas. All India could think was that if he stayed up there and starved, then good bloody riddance to him—he was a blight on the family, frankly. She didn't like her mother's bug-eyed little dog, either, but at least he wasn't a hateful, scheming little Nazi in fur like Pookah._

 _"He'll come down when he's hungry, Magpie," India finally said. The little girl—twelve years old—looked like she might start crying._

 _"What if he gets cold tonight?" she asked, then she brightened. "I know! I'll go get a bobby! He'll help!"_

 _India winced. Since VE Day she had carefully avoided bobbies, to the point of making her mother wonder if she had committed a crime. She supposed in some way she had—she had boldly kissed PC Sullivan, just moments after meeting him. It still rattled her that he had kissed her back, but her own behavior had been appalling and the Duchess of Errington would rip off strips of her flesh if she ever found out. Her mother, a Hungarian countess by birth, was a stickler for proper, lady-like behavior and though she was fairly understanding of youthful foibles, she did not tolerate hoydenishness. Whatever that was._

 _Just the same, the memory of that kiss lingered, a full month later. It had been her first kiss, and it had been utterly delicious. He hadn't tasted like cigarettes, for one thing, and he had clearly known what he was doing when he had kissed her back. She had always found it hard to get interested in the callow young men her mother kept introducing her to, and now she couldn't bear to be in the same room with them. They were all so… boring. PC Sullivan was anything but callow, and he was definitely not boring. She hadn't been able to stop thinking about him, and at night she dreamed about him and would wake up feeling feverish._

 _Madeleine was already dashing away in search of a uniformed police officer. India stood under the tree, eyeing the ill-humored cat and placing nasty curses on the hateful feline, though the only one she knew in her mother's native language was "Guta üssön meg", which wasn't terribly colorful. Then she added a few more imaginative Irish curses as well, for good measure. "May the nine blind illegitimate children of Mary Malone chase you so far over the hills of Tipperary that God Himself can't see you with His own spyglass!" she hissed at the cat, which hissed back. "And may the whole Union Army use you for target practice—I'm sure at least one damned Yankee could wing you!"_

 _"I found one, Indigo! I found one!"_

 _India turned and gasped when she saw PC Sullivan standing beside her sister. She saw his eyes widen slightly, but he nodded politely at the little girl. "How can I help you, Miss? "_

 _"Lady," Madeleine said. "I am Lady Madeleine Collins, and this is my sister Lady India Collins. Our father is the Duke of Errington."_

 _His brow furrowed, and India wished the earth would swallow her. "Yes. Hello, Constable. Th-thank you for… for coming."_

 _"What seems to be the problem? A cat?"_

 _"Yes."_

 _He stepped under the branches and India looked up at him, first at his mouth and then at his eyes and her heart started hammering away—she had never thought she would ever see him again, and yet here he was, standing less than three feet away. She had always had a thing for men in uniform, but ever since VE Day, she only had a thing for this particular man in uniform._

 _"Been a while," he said quietly, not looking at her as he pondered the cat, which was now making a low growling sound, rather like a tin can full of angry bees._

 _"I… um… " She looked at her sister, who was focused on her cat and didn't notice the tension between her sister and Sullivan. "The cat is the spawn of Satan… a boggart through and through. He won't come down, the nasty creature."_

 _Sullivan's mouth twitched slightly. "That would describe a boggart fairly well. But your sister still wants him down?"_

 _"He's nice to her. Attacks the dogs, makes the mailman threaten us with legal action at least twice a week, and did something to our Christmas goose, last year, that does not bear mentioning, it was so disgusting. Horrible creature—we had to make do with a Christmas chicken!"_

 _"Well, just the same, we can't deprive a little girl of her pet." He thought for a moment. "All right. I'll be back shortly."_

 _India waited until PC Sullivan was gone before turning her wrath on her sister. "You beat all I ever saw!" she snapped. "This doesn't need police action! A .22 rifle would settle the matter quite satisfactorily, as far as I'm concerned, and that dreadful creature would be out of the tree, too."_

 _Madeleine looked shocked. "You meanie! I want my cat back!"_

 _"He'd've come back on his own! He knows which side of his bread gets buttered!"_

 _"I want my cat back!" Madeleine repeated, and crossed her arms, digging her heels in. India and her only sister rarely quarreled, but when they did, the floors shook and the governess started clicking her rosary beads and running through Hail Marys._

 _"I ought to shake you 'til your teeth rattle! I have never been so embarrassed in my life. Calling a policeman to fish a cat out of a tree!"_

 _The sound of a throat clearing made India jump and turn around. PC Sullivan was standing there again, holding a tin of sardines. He twisted the key it until the container was open, then tipped his helmet back and called to the cat, holding the tin up where Pookah could see it. He made kissing sounds and trilled "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty," a few times, and the cat perked up, meowed, and came down quickly, eyes on the fish as Sullivan handed the tin to Madeleine. The cat leapt into her arms and began eating, purring happily while Madeleine cooed and stroked the cat's head._

 _"Cruel, deceitful creature," India muttered. "I will never keep a cat!"_

 _Madeleine sat down on a bench and the cat settled down beside her, eating his sardines while Madeleine stroked his fur._

 _Sullivan nodded to India. "That went well."_

 _"Yes, it did. Thank you, PC… er… Sullivan. It's very nice to see you again."_

 _"Likewise."_

 _"You're with the Pimlico constabulary now?"_

 _"Yes. Just got the transfer out here two weeks ago."_

 _"Oh. That's nice. I suspect it's a quieter neighborhood." Of his nod, she smiled. "You live nearby?"_

 _"On my wages? No. But not far away."_

 _"I see."_

 _She glanced at her sister, who was cuddling the cat, talking to him as though he understood every word. Pookah, stomach full of sardines and his cruel deed of the day done, looked positively angelic._

 _Sullivan cleared his throat and she studied him, taking in his lean, strong build and gorgeous green eyes. He was so unlike the fashionably weedy, blue-blooded young men in her circle. India didn't like blond men at all, and she didn't like posh accents, either. PC Sullivan looked like a man who had come up through a rougher world, and she saw that his knuckles were reddened, and there was a small red mark on his jaw. "I see you've been breaking up brawls."_

 _"Er… yes. Last night in a pub a few blocks from here."_

 _"What started it?"_

 _"A small man with a big mouth and an even bigger cigar."_

 _She started laughing._

 _"What part of America are you from?" he asked her suddenly._

 _"I was actually born in Texas. My grandfather—the Duke of Errington—married a Texas millionaire's daughter, but decided to live in the States. My father and aunts and uncles were all born there. Papa came here to attend Eton and Oxford and married my mother here… she's Hungarian… but they moved to Texas before any of us were born. I didn't even know I was 'Lady India Collins' until I was six. Everybody just called me India… or Indigo."_

 _"I see."_

 _"And you?"_

 _"No one has ever called me India."_

 _She laughed. "Where are you from, here in London?"_

 _"East End."_

 _She was silent for a moment, then had to ask. "You don't sound like you're from the East End."_

 _"I… left it as soon as I could. The street where I was born was destroyed during the Blitz. Nothing to go back to."_

 _"Your family is still in that part of town, though?"_

 _"I suppose."_

 _She sensed that his family was not a subject he cared to talk about. The world is made up of all kinds, and she didn't feel it to be her right to pry._

 _"I've told you my name. What's yours?"_

 _"Alex… Alexander."_

 _"So nice they named you twice?" she said with a teasing smile._

 _"Most people don't consider me 'nice'. Why did you kiss me?" he asked suddenly, glancing warily at her sister, but the girl had found a string and was keeping Pookah occupied._

 _India blushed. "I wanted to. I had never kissed anybody before and wanted… well, I wanted it to be something special. Considering my mother has a good bit of my future planned out already, I wanted to do something of my own for once."_

 _He looked confused for a moment, and she felt terrible._

 _"I'm sorry. I… that doesn't sound good at all. I wouldn't just kiss anybody."_

 _"Man in uniform then, eh?"_

 _"No girl can resist. I'm sure no girl has ever resisted you."_

 _His cheeks pinked slightly and she found herself blushing, too. How did she become so bold?_

 _"Perhaps… if you're interested… we… " He seemed to be pushing himself forward and bracing him at the same time. "Do you enjoy dancing?"_

 _"A great deal!"_

 _"Good. If you're able and willing, there's a place on the other side of Churchill Gardens. It's nothing fancy, but they feature good bands… some are even from America."_

 _"When?" she asked, glancing at Madeleine again._

 _"Tomorrow. Six o'clock. We can meet there."_

 _"What's it called?"_

 _"The Tropic. Of course, the only tropical thing about it is a tankful of fish from Bermuda, and I suspect they'd rather be back home."_

 _India laughed, her excitement and eagerness growing. "I'll be there at six, Alexander Sullivan."_

 _"Constable Alexander James Sullivan." He nodded, smiling, touched the brim of his helmet, and bowed slightly before walking away._

 _Lady India Collins had a date! She whirled around and called Madeleine to come along and bring the Demon Cat with her. She had to pick out what to wear… and she had to figure out how to get out of the house tomorrow night without her mother finding out._

* * *

"India! Darling, are you ready?"

The Dowager Princess von Altburg studied herself in the mirror, feeling strangely empty inside. She had put on a black and white floral fishtail pencil dress, and it looked quite good on her—two confinements had done nothing to her figure at all, thankfully. A black pillbox hat with a veil completed the picture, and she had added a silver necklace with a black and silver enamel dragon to complete the ensemble, and Lady Felicia had thoroughly approved, saying she looked positively smashing. India had caught her looking at the old, worn silver bracelet on her wrist, but she had said nothing.

She went on downstairs and was greeted by her hostess and Lady Felicia's niece, Bunty, who was coming along for 'the show'. India hadn't thought much of what Bunty meant by that phrasing, but then again she wasn't terribly interested in anything now. She felt strangely gloomy, despite the good cheer tonight's event was supposed to bring to little children, and she hoped she could keep herself from dragging everyone else down. From what she understood, the children would be allowed to stay up after the auction to get a look at a genuine, real-life princess, and she would be presenting the people who ran the orphanage with the funds the auction had raised.

"All ready," she said. She had only applied a small bit of makeup and lipstick, having never been keen on either, and caught Bunty's assessing look.

"Very nice. You've got the figure for pencil dresses, that's for sure. You'll drive the man… the men wild."

"What man? What men?" India asked, alarmed.

"Oh, ignore Bunty," Felicia said, and when India's back was turned she gave her niece a 'keep your mouth shut or you're out of the will' look. "She's man-crazy herself!" They donned their warm coats and gloves, and Felicia called for Sid, who appeared in the doorway in his uniform, looking quite spiffy.

"It's awfully cold out there, ladies," he said, leading them out to the car and opening the door. "Lady Bunty, lookin' smashin' as always," he said, giving the young woman a wink. Bunty lifted her nose and got in, followed by Felicia. Sid was more formal to India, tipping his cap, and his brow furrowed when she didn't smile at him.

India settled the fur lap rug over her legs and put her head back, hoping to rest on her way to Brocklesby. That was impossible, however, as a headache was forming. As much sympathy and concern she felt towards orphans, she really wished she had stayed at Lady Felicia's, in bed, dreaming of a time in her life before she had to worry about anything beyond deciding what to wear.

* * *

"Afternoon, Inspector. Glad you made it out here," Father Dominic said, smiling warmly, but Sullivan could only glare at him.

"Why was I told to wear my formal kit?" he asked, without even saying hello.

"Erm… well, I have it on good authority that a member of the Royal Family will be in attendance. Lady Felicia didn't tell you?"

"Father Brown told me to wear my uniform, and then Lady Felicia called me and insisted I wear this, but she made no mention of… " The door to the priest's office opened and Father Brown came in, blowing on his hands, followed by Mrs. McCarthy, who had a cat-who-ate-the-canary expression her face.

"I brought four other constables, too, like you requested," he said tightly. The four other men had been quite jolly about coming to St John's and had brought along a large box of police 'memorabilia' to offer in the auction. They were all in uniform, too, and they all looked strangely neat and well-turned-out for an auction to raise money for an orphanage.

"I'm sure you will be impressive enough, Inspector. Are you ready for Christmas?" Mrs. McCarthy asked, distracting Sullivan from his growing uneasiness.

"I don't want to talk about Christmas. I just want to get this over with."

Father Dominic rubbed his hands together, nervous and excited at once. "What member of the Royal Family is here, anyway? The Duke of Gloucester?"

"Um… no. Not that high-ranking," Father Brown said, looking a little uneasy himself, which set off alarms in Sullivan's head. "A more… offshoot member of the family, Lady Felicia tells me. I'm sure you'll enjoy yourself. Everything is almost ready at the Women's Institute Hall. You have a warm coat, I hope?"

"Yes," Sullivan said, trying not sound churlish, but he would have preferred to be at home, not listening to Christmas music on the wireless. Not that that was easily done. Forget a bloody canary, he thought, putting on his cap and his heavy coat. I'll buy a record player and a larger liquor cabinet. "I have a few questions about this auction, Father. What exactly are we selling here?"

"Erm… a few items of some… considerable value. Depending on one's point of view."

"Oh, well now, how cryptic!" Sullivan snapped, following the priest out into the frosty night. "Why not just tell me in Latin?!"

* * *

India was glad to get inside the hall, where a small stage was set up at one end of the large room. A little lectern was set at one side of the stage, and a curtain covered whatever was apparently backstage. India wondered if the children weren't putting on a Nativity play, but her ponderings were disrupted by several more women suddenly bursting into the room, all chattering away, clearly excited. Most were young or youngish, all dressed to the nines, and apparently very keen on raising money for orphans.

"I got all my savings out of the bank this morning," one woman said as she sat down. "I know I've got my eye on one of the bachelors!"

"Good evening, Miss Martens," Felicia said, sitting down beside India, whose eyes widened in shock. "Aren't the decorations in here lovely, India? So bright and cheerful and Christmasy… "

"This is a bachelor auction?"

"Yes," Felicia said, looking strangely triumphant. "And we have a group of handsome young fellows up for sale this year that will get these children an entire toy _store_ for Christmas."

"No one told me about this," India said.

Felicia cleared her throat as Bunty sat down next to her. "Well… frankly, you're not the only one we didn't tell."

* * *

"Please, Inspector, sit down, you look quite tired." Father Brown gestured for Sullivan to take a seat in a room toward the back of the hall, and the detective removed his hat and sat, then remembered he was still wearing his coat. He stood and removed it, checked his medals to make sure none had been lost during that rather lengthy and exhausting gallop through the snow from the church (it irked him that he had to trot to keep up with a priest in his fifties), and sat down, glad his back had stopped hurting at least. His side still ached, but much less so.

"So… um… are there any interesting cases going on in town?" the priest asked, and Sullivan immediately knew something wasn't right.

"All right, that's it… what's going on here?" he asked, irritated.

"What do you mean?"

"Something besides just an auction is going on."

"Hardly, Inspector. Please, just relax."

"Where are the other constables?" Sullivan asked, eyes narrowing.

"Um… they're gathering up the toys, I think... or working out… logistics."

Sullivan eyed the priest and was about to launch into an angry diatribe at the man when Lady Felicia came rushing in, and he did not miss the relieved expression on Brown's face when she whispered in his ear. The older man stood, smiled again at Sullivan, and left. Lady Felicia took his seat, elegantly crossed her knees, and fixed him with her best smile.

"My, don't you look handsome in that uniform, Inspector. By the way, what rank did you achieve, in the army?"

"Only up to Corporal, then I was a War Reserve Constable and that has nothing to do with… "

"Did you see action?"

"My knee was ruined for good at Dunkirk. Now tell me what the hell is going on here!" Sullivan shouted at her, his waning control over his temper finally giving way.

* * *

"All right, ladies, attention please," one of the ladies from the Brocklesby WI said, waving from the stage. "Now, we're going to get started with the first bachelor of the evening… Brocklesby's own Constable Philip Ridley!"

The ladies began cheering enthusiastically when the young policeman came out from behind the curtains, wearing his full uniform and an anxious expression. When he saw the sea of eager females staring at him, he turned and tried to run back behind the curtain, but Sid and two other young men were there, prepared to shove the night's bachelors back into play when called upon.

Bids began quickly, and soon rose to three and finally five quid, with the frightened young constable sold to a pretty, excited young woman who, after paying, marched to the stage, grabbed his hand and pulled him down the aisle, out the door and into the night, calling "Oh, what happy orphans we shall have tonight!"

"Good Lord," India whispered. She was going to have to buy one of them, she supposed. This kind of thing usually just involved one dinner out at some (dreadful) restaurant somewhere, and that would be the end of it. She settled back in her chair, wondering where Lady Felicia had gone. When the second bachelor came out—a postman—the ladies got even louder, and India figured he didn't look so bad. However, when she started to bid, Bunty grabbed her hand and held it down.

"Don't bid on him. He's got a girlfriend, and she's as crazy as my uncle's best spaniel. Steer clear, or she'll break all your windows and kill all your chickens. Or at least that's what she did to me."

India sighed and sat back, letting the other girls cheer and bid. The postman drew eight quid, purchased by his shapely and determined girlfriend, who looked smug as she dragged him away.

Two more constables went up for bidding, and both sold for nice sums. A local bartender also pulled in a nice bit of cash, followed by a red-faced lad who looked like he might faint when a hefty lass got the winning bid. She marched up onto the stage, picked him up, and carried him out over her shoulder. By that time, India was laughing so hard she wasn't sure if it wasn't good for her health. The war had depleted the pool of available young men a good bit, but India had forgotten what a ruthless, cut-throat game this could be even when there were plenty of young stags about!

All told, nine men had been sold, and India noticed Father Brown rushing back to somewhere behind the curtains, and moments later Felicia returned, puffing a little, with her hat a bit askew, and she caught a glimpse of Sid staggering by, head tipped back, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Felicia smiled at India and sat down. "Good heavens, what's happened?"

"Monetary expectations met and exceeded, apparently," Bunty said, off her aunt's look.

"Total mayhem backstage—thought we'd have to tie him up and gag him," Felicia whispered to Bunty, who giggled." Have you bought the bull of the ball, India?" she asked, straightening her hat.

"No. Bunty wouldn't let me bid on any of them," India said. "The last constable was really quite adorable, even if he did look like he might have soiled his pants when that hard-boiled blonde bought him. What happened to you back there, Felicia?"

"Oh, nothing. Just a minor… erm… scuffle. There's one more bachelor yet and I daresay I think he'd rather charge a large group of armed Russians than do this. But perhaps you ought to bid, hm? Out of… er… charity?"

India shrugged. Father Brown suddenly stepped out onto the stage, smiling kindly at everyone, and the ladies settled down after a few moments.

"Now, ladies, we have one last …erm… item to sell." He turned and pulled back the curtains, and Inspector Sullivan was shoved forward by two hefty men. He turned around, gesturing angrily at them, then turned back to face the crowd, wide-eyed. "Inspector Alexander Sullivan, head DI of the Kembleford Police. Thirty-five, a decorated veteran of the European theatre and the War Reserve constabulary; well-educated and well-informed, and… er… perhaps not in the best of moods, but I'm sure that will change soon enough." The enraged detective paused on the stage, then turned around again and tried to flee, but the two remaining men were ready with truncheons, and Father Brown's disapproving frown seemed to make Sullivan at least turn back to face the crowd and stand still.

The ladies were all silent, staring at him, clearly sizing him and liking what they saw. Bunty grabbed India's hand, and she snatched it away, annoyed, but she folded her arms, refusing to look at him, however gorgeous he was in his uniform.

"Ten pounds!" a woman in the back yelled.

"Who'll raise a bid to twelve?" the auctioneer—Mrs. Whittington-Douglas-Hume—called, looking startled, then pleased, at such a high start.

Something tickled India's nose, and she tried to brush it away.

"Oh, I see a bid for twelve!"

"Fourteen!" someone up front yelled.

"Who'll bid sixteen?"

Felicia stomped on India's foot, making her yelp in pain. She glared at her hostess, who feigned innocence.

"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry… thought I saw a spider… "

"I see a bid for sixteen!"

"Twenty!" another woman yelled. Sullivan was completely still, and India looked up at him, seeing an expression on his face that he probably hadn't worn since the day he and his fellow soldiers were evacuated from Dunkirk. She ignored Bunty blowing in her ear and raised her hand.

"Fifty pounds."

Everyone fell silent, and more than a few of the other women grumbled, knowing they were outdone. Sullivan rubbed his face and glared angrily at Father Brown, but the priest looked the picture of innocence.

"Final call!" the auctioneer said. "Going once… going twice… sold, to… um… what is your name, dear?"

"India Collins," Sullivan said through clenched teeth. "Her name is India Collins."

"The Dowager Princess von Altburg, actually," Felicia called. "A relative of Her Majesty Queen Mary."

Mrs. Whittington-Douglas-Hume looked stunned, then simpered, straightening her blouse a bit. "Well, then, ma'am, you've just bought the bull of the ball!" The woman was smiling, delighted, and not even Sullivan could begrudge the woman her pleasure at having raised a lot of money to give orphans a happy Christmas. "And quite a handsome devil you've got there, too! Even better, this auction has raised one-hundred-twelve pounds tonight, which will purchase a mountain of delightful toys for the children of St John's Orphanage. Thank you all so much for participating, and the children thank you all especially. We have wassail and all sorts of treats to eat next door, and there will be dancing beginning at eight o'clock." She looked at Sullivan, who was still standing on the stage, staring at India, who was staring back at him, a little bemused. "Plenty of time to recover, I should think."

"Not nearly," Sullivan said.

Brown looked delighted, clapping the inspector on the back. "Very good, Inspector! You'd think you were a son of Hyperion!"


	6. Chapter 6

As I understand it, £50 is worth about £1300 in current money.

* * *

India had to leave Sullivan behind in the WI Hall and head over to the larger church hall, where a happy but rather unruly herd of wild children were racing about amongst the auction buyers and their hapless purchases. Father Brown and Lady Felicia had already made it over, with Bunty, and India sighed as she stood outside the door, knowing she would have to be 'announced'. Fritz had also found this particular little ritual somewhat ridiculous, and had joked that his ancestors had never had a warm meal in their lives, what with always having to be the last to arrive to any social function.

"Her Serene Highness the Princess India von Altburg!" someone called, and she stepped out of the cold into the (overly) warm room. The children, particularly the little girls, stopped racing around and followed Father Dominic's gentle command to come to the front to meet her. A particularly tiny little girl was pushed forward by a nun, apparently to present India with a little bouquet of red and white roses, but the child was not entirely up on the concept, because she waved the flowers around like a wand.

"Give the roses to the princess, Nell!" a nun stage-whispered.

India gently intercepted the flowers and dropped a kiss on the girl's forehead. "Thank you, sweetheart. What pretty flowers, though they're not nearly as pretty as you!"

The little girl stared up at her, wide-eyed and clearly very pleased with herself, because she hugged herself tightly and bounced up and down. India smiled at her and smelled the roses, then glanced across the room and saw Sullivan standing there, his head bare and looking at least a little less agitated. He certainly wasn't pretty, but dear God, he made her heart start pounding.

Having become accustomed to ceremonies like this, India forced herself to not look at the spread of cakes and cookies on the table across the room, but instead allowed Felicia to make introductions to various local worthies. She met the mayor, a jolly, fat little man who made her think of Mr. Fezziwig from _A Christmas Carol_. Father Dominic was a slight, cheerful and kindly man and the nuns were much jollier than the stereotypical nuns who ran orphanages (though India supposed she had read many books that depicted nuns as dour and strict), and they were incredibly patient with the rambunctious children, and even laughed at their antics.

"I am very pleased to present these funds—one hundred twelve pounds—towards the St John's Orphanage Christmas Gift Fund," India said, when prompted. "God bless you all, and may God bless this worthy organization in every way possible… and Happy Christmas!"

A round of applause ended the ritual, and she heard more than a few people talking about her American accent, but India was happy to join the queue for some cake and punch. She collected a few pieces (good Lord, she was suddenly famished) and sat down at a table and nibbled a piece of something called Victoria sponge cake. It wasn't very good, but it was better than nothing. She drew in her breath when Sullivan appeared at her side, expression wary.

"As you purchased me, I suppose I'm at your command."

That made India's cheeks pink. If she commanded him to do half the things she wanted him to do, right now, she could be arrested for public indecency—and if he did fulfill any of her more risqué (if not downright scandalous) fantasies, he would be arrested, too. She took a sip of her punch, and found that it had been spiked. It went down the wrong passage and she started coughing, her eyes filling with tears. Sullivan looked alarmed and handed her a napkin, and once the coughing fit had ended she dabbed her eyes a little.

"They didn't tell me about this bachelor auction until moments before it started," she told him.

"I keep telling myself it was for a worthy cause. And Father Brown told me that if I couldn't make a fool of myself for a bunch of orphans, who could I make a fool of myself for?" He took a sip of punch, winced, and put the cup down. "This stuff needs an octane rating!"

"I hope the children aren't getting into it," India said, laughing.

"It might calm them down a bit," he said, watching a small set of them dash by. "It's past their bedtimes anyway—at this rate, it'll take ropes to keep them in bed at all."

A band had set up on the dais and soon began playing bouncy music, and India remembered dancing with him at the Tropic. She had been surprised to find that he had more than his share of skill, and he had taught her various steps, including the tango, but she had particularly enjoyed the slower, more intimate dances …

"Well… since I did purchase you, how long exactly do I… um… own you?" she finally asked.

His eyes widened slightly, and he seemed to be at a loss. "I'm afraid I wasn't informed of any particular… er… timeframes." He looked around the room, watching the dancers bounce around. "Care to dance?" he finally asked.

"I… yes."

The band finished its first number and began a slower, romantic tune that was familiar to them both—'Moonlight in Vermont'. He stood and held out his hand, and India took it, rising gracefully. Sullivan slipped his arm around her waist, and she settled her hand on his shoulder, her other hand in his, and they began moving to the music. It was as if they had never been apart—they moved together in perfect rhythm, him firmly in the lead without overshadowing her. She recalled him telling her, once, that in dancing, the woman is the picture and the man is the frame.

"I'm sorry for what I said about your mother," he finally said. "It was uncalled for and very unkind. She behaved like any mother would, in those circumstances. In fact, she behaved even better than most."

She wanted to hug him as tightly as she could then, and never let go.

"It's all right," she finally whispered. "Water under the bridge."

"Just the same… a lot of water. How have you been these past few years?" he asked, and she lifted her head to look at him.

"Fairly well. Fritz and I lived in Virginia, where he could be closer to the best doctors available. His lungs were… wrecked in Dachau and… "

"I understand he did a lot to help Jews and other persecuted folks on the Continent and the Nazis were not terribly keen on that."

"Yes. That would be an understatement."

"He was a good man."

"He was. He was a very good, kind, gentle man—very devout, and determined to do the right thing, even when it didn't serve him well in this world—it didn't, really, though at least he had a clean conscience, and that was enough for him. I don't recall us ever quarreling, and if we did, it was never with a drop of rancor. He loved to laugh… even though laughing made him have terrible coughing spells."

Sullivan was quiet for a moment, leading her smoothly through the music, and she rested her forehead on his shoulder again. "Did you love him, India?"

She looked up at him, right into his eyes, unable to lie to this man, who was incapable of lying himself. "Yes. I did."

The flash of pain in his eyes almost killed her—he was good at controlling his facial expressions quite well, but his eyes always told the true story. She sighed sadly and rested her head on his shoulder again, breathing in his familiar woodsy cologne. His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer, and she forgot all about everyone else in the room.

"Nothing wrong with loving someone," he finally said.

"No," she said huskily. "No, there's not. We had a happy life together."

"And two little boys."

"Yes."

"I suppose you did better than most, in that regard."

"Had the war not happened, we would be… we would be in Germany, running the family vineyard. They made wonderful wine. But the war did happen and since he opposed Hitler, the estate was confiscated… they stole everything that wasn't nailed down, actually. We're still trying to get the property back."

"If you do, I hope you don't start drinking too much of the wine," he said, the corner of his mouth quirking a little, and she giggled.

"Still can't hold my liquor, I'm afraid. David—my oldest brother—could tell you about wine. He can talk about it all day. I'd prefer to just sip some with my meal."

The song ended, and they stepped apart. India was in too much of an emotional state for dancing anymore, and she went back to the table. He held the chair for her, and she sat, feeling as though everything was turned upside down and inside out. Sullivan sat down opposite her, watching a nun chase a five-year-old child across the dance floor. The boy was hiding behind dancers, who found the situation entirely amusing, and the nun only pretended to be annoyed as he evaded her. She finally caught him, picked him up and carried him away, tickling him, his delighted laughter charming everyone.

"Your boys seem just as energetic," he finally said.

"Yes. They're wonderful. I was worried I wouldn't be good at motherhood, but I flatter myself in thinking I'm not messing them up too badly." She couldn't make eye contact with Sullivan then. The doctors had informed her husband that 'vigorous activity' might be too hard on his lungs, but he had done all right… most of the time. His difficulties were hardly his fault, anyway. The physical and emotional trauma he had endured would have made any man have trouble in that area. His unyielding faith in God and his positive outlook on life had helped him endure trials that India wasn't sure she could have survived.

Through her marriage, she had learned a lot about patience and perseverance. Her husband hadn't exactly been robust even before the Nazis had gotten hold of him, but it had been of vital importance to him to have children, and she knew that his desire for offspring wasn't just to continue the family line. She sensed that if he could sire offspring, he would truly be getting revenge on the people who had tormented him in his native country. They had tried to break him, but instead, he had left the world with his family name continuing for another generation, honored and respected, while his captors would be known forever as monsters.

"They both look like you… but it's strange they look so little alike."

She laughed, softly. "And their personalities are very different. Maximillian is bold and determined and loves being outdoors, getting dirty, while Sebastian is cuddly and likes to help me in the kitchen and would rather read a book, and I think Sebastian looks more like Fritz."

"The older boy does seem to have a mind of his own. He just isn't too skilled with a slingshot."

India laughed "We've had a row or two, and I suspect as he gets older they will become more frequent. At just seven, he's already the man of the house—a natural-born leader, and very protective of his little brother."

"He'd better be respectful towards his mother, though," Sullivan said.

"He is. He just… digs his little heels in and won't budge sometimes. Sebastian is more easy-going." She sighed and watched the dancers bouncing by, enjoying a fast-paced number. "They miss their father, though they don't talk about him a lot. I bring Fritz up sometimes, but I worry about re-opening wounds… "

Sullivan said nothing, and she knew he was thinking of his acid-edged relationship with his own father. He had told her only a little about his childhood, and it had not been happy, largely due to his father being rather 'domineering'. Yet again, India knew how blessed she had been to be raised by loving, attentive parents. Her mother had been strong-willed and determined to see her elder daughter well-matched, but she had also been even more determined to find India a good mate who would see to her comfort and well-being above all else. The Duchess of Errington had seen India's tears, though, and had been sympathetic, but had been firm on the notion that Duke's daughters do not marry Metropolitan Police constables who barely made enough to scrape by. In the end, India had had to toe the line…

"I'm rather surprised to see you living in Kembleford, of all places," India said, pulling herself out of her memories. Yesterday is dead, and tomorrow is blind.

"So am I," he answered absently. He removed his tie and his medals, stashing them in his pocket.

"How did you end up out here?"

When asked a question he didn't like answering, Sullivan's demeanor took on an iciness that was impossible to melt. India had seen it many times during their all-too-brief courtship, and it had confused her then. Now, she was more philosophical about it—she didn't like answering hard questions, either, but she did not have the iron will of Alexander Sullivan. With him, one had to be more subtle in one's probing, that was for sure. Of course, back then, she had been able to wheedle information out of him by kissing him.

He leaned forward, on his forearms. "Let's go outside a bit. It's too damned hot in here."

"Quite," she said, snatching up her little pearl-lined clutch. They stepped out of the hall and stood in the cold, breathing in the scent of firewood burning somewhere in the village below. Neither of them really felt the cold, though he did put his cap back on.

She swallowed. "I hope we can put the past behind us now, Alexander. Become… friends, perhaps."

He looked like he wanted to say something but finally nodded. "Right. Considering we live in the same town and all, it would be best if we got along. People would talk otherwise."

"Exactly."

"We'll see each other sometimes… passing through the streets… " He cleared his throat. "People in Kembleford gossip enough. There's no use adding fuel to that particular fire."

"Yes. Of course. Polite honorifics when we pass on the street. And there's no reason why we can't speak to each other in a perfectly civilized manner."

"I agree," he said, staring across the lane at a Christmas creche set up outside a bakery. "We should let bygones be bygones."

"Right. Absolutely." Tears filled her eyes, and not from the cold wind blowing on her face. "I'm getting terribly cold now. Can we go back inside?"

He nodded and held the door for her. India brushed against him as she passed, and she almost ached with hunger for him, but she managed somehow to put a smile on her face when Father Brown and Father Dominic greeted her. Sullivan went back to the table and sat down, removing his hat and watching everyone dance. The nuns were rounding up the children, but that was akin to herding chickens, as they kept scattering in every direction. Sullivan nodded at one of the still wide-eyed constables, who took the silent order and began helping the nuns, finally picking up two giggling children and handing them over.

India finally returned to the table and sat, watching Sullivan for signs of any kind of a break, but there was none. He was silent, but at least he wasn't icy.

"How did you get those scars on your face?" she asked at last.

"Brawl at the Red Lion. Cracked a rib, too."

India was horrified, but she knew that displays of sympathy would be lost on him. "Oh. I hope you didn't have to bite anybody's finger off."

That got her a smile, and she felt her heart flip over.

"No. Lennie Garson's fingers are the size of German sausages. Impossible."

"It seems you've been having a few rough days. I saw you on the street the other day, covered with snow and ice."

"Right. Frozen daiquiri. I had to chase down a purse snatcher."

"Don't you ever rest? Or take a holiday?"

"I get a day off sometimes. Rarely… " His brow furrowed slightly. Wasn't he in charge of duty roster? He could give himself some time off, if just to recover from injuries. "Maybe I should. I might take a few days off at Christmas. Sleep late… all the way 'til seven, anyway."

She laughed softly.

Father Brown appeared suddenly, and Sullivan sighed. "Excuse me. I do apologize, Your Highness, but I'm afraid Lady Felicia needs to take Bunty home—she's gotten a bit… er… "

"Pissed?" Sullivan asked, completely deadpan.

"I would not have chosen that word specifically, but that would sum it up. Anyway, we need to get her home before she knocks over the punchbowl and floods the recreation hall."

"That would definitely make this a memorable evening," Sullivan said, taking a sip of his punch and wincing. "Though dumping this stuff out wouldn't be a bad idea."

"Anyway, we do need to leave early. Perhaps Inspector Sullivan might give you a lift home?" Brown settled his gaze on Sullivan, who squirmed a little and tugged at his collar. India looked at him, waiting, and he finally nodded.

"No trouble at all."

Father Brown looked pleased and walked away.

"We can stay as long as you like," Sullivan told her.

"I think I'd like to go home now," India said, feeling a headache coming on. Besides, she felt terribly disappointed. Alex hadn't made one inappropriate move towards her, and she wished to Heaven above that he would let his control slip a least a little.

He stood and held out his hand, and she took it, and for just a moment their eyes met and she was transported back in time, to that night at the Tropic.

Dear God, why didn't I tell him then? Had I been honest, things might be entirely different now…

* * *

 _"This place is as noisy as VE Day!" India shouted over the clamor of music and loud talking._

 _"Exciting, though," he yelled back. "Would you like a drink?"_

 _"Um… Coke, please."_

 _His brow furrowed, but he nodded and disappeared into the crowd, heading towards the bar. India stood where he had put her, afraid of getting swallowed up in a sea of dancing people. She saw British and American soldiers mixed with civilians, and men were throwing women about as though they weighed nothing at all._

 _"Hey there, cutie," a man said, grinning at India. She flinched away from him, appalled at his leering face and bad teeth._

 _"Good evening."_

 _"Oi, hoity-toity little minx y'are. Care to dance?"_

 _"Thank you, no."_

 _"Then what're ya here for? Surely not the food! All they've got is Spotted Dick from the Elizabethan era."_

 _"Then I shall endeavor to avoid it."_

 _"C'mon, let's dance and forego the Spotted Dick." He grabbed her arm, and India tried to jerk away. "You can play with this particular Unspotted Dick later on, eh?"_

 _"Unhand me now, sir," she said, still trying to get her arm out of his vise-like grim._

 _"Excuse me, my name is Alexander Sullivan."_

 _The orthodontically unfortunate man turned and came face to face with Sullivan, who was holding bottles of Coke and beer in his hand._

 _"Why the hell would I care?" the man asked, annoyed._

 _"I just thought you might like to know the name of your assailant."_

 _The man's eyes widened, but he still didn't let India go._

 _"Let the lady go. Now."_

 _"I… " The man started to challenge Sullivan, but he saw something dark and dangerous in his eyes, because he hesitated, then let go of India's arm and backed away. "Sorry. Didn't know you she was your bird."_

 _"Apologize."_

 _"I said I was… "_

 _"To her."_

 _Brownteeth turned around and stared at India for a moment and gulped. "Dreadfully sorry, Miss."_

 _"It's… all right," India said quickly, eyes never leaving Sullivan's face._

 _"On your knees," Sullivan snapped._

 _The man dropped, winced when his knees hit the hard floor, and clasped his hands together, groveling to India. "Very, very sorry… please forgive me, ma'am, and please don't let him kill me!"_

 _"I forgive you, now run away. Quickly, if you value your life at all."_

 _The man scrambled to his feet, and Sullivan leaned in slightly. "Remember—a gentleman does not grab a lady, nor does he use vulgar language in her presence or refer to her as a 'bird'. Treat women with respect and they might even overlook the condition of your teeth."_

 _The man simpered, nodded, and rushed away._

 _"People tend to obey you, Constable," she said, and just then the noise died down and the tempo of the music slowed._

 _"Alex."_

 _"Oh. Right. Alex." She blushed. "Sorry. I mean… you seem very… intimidating."_

 _"I tend to be. It comes in handy in my line of work." He handed her the Coke. "Teetotaler?"_

 _"Um… more or less."_

 _"Probably wise not to drink much in here anyway." He spotted an unoccupied table and snatched a chair before anyone else could get it. He held the chair for her, and she sat, watching him take a chair from another table and sitting as well. He wasn't wearing his uniform, but still looked quite delectable in a crisp white shirt and black trousers._

 _"How long has it been since you've been in the States?" he asked._

 _"We returned just as the Russians crossed into Germany. My father and my grandmother's family are heavily involved in proving oil for the war effort, and my mother and aunts have devoted themselves to the USO and various organizations helping the families of soldiers. I spend almost every day folding linen bandages and organizing fund-raising drives and the like. Back home, I spent every day stuffing care packages with Hershey bars and writing paper and other useful little things a soldier would find useful, like Butternick patterns and press-on nails."_

 _He snickered, and she giggled. "I suppose you'll be particularly glad when the war is totally finished." He took a swig of his beer. "Your General Patton is quite the bulldog."_

 _She laughed. "I find some of his behavior less than charming, but when you're fighting Nazis, charm is not a suitable weapon. In fact, it might be wiser to be rather unpleasant… albeit in a civilized way. And yes, I'll be tickled pink when this war ends."_

 _That earned her a smile. He such a lovely smile. It was almost boyish, and totally charming.  
_

 _She finished her Coke in relaxed silence, and he finally sat back in his chair._

 _"I suppose you have a… uh… boyfriend back home?" he asked._

 _"I do?"_

 _"Don't you?"_

 _"No. None whatsoever."_

 _He studied her a moment. "I'm surprised to hear that... and also can't say how relieved I am. So… care to dance?"_

 _"I would love to," she said. The song playing was up-tempo but not Swing, and even though India was not a skilled dancer, it soon began apparent that Alexander Sullivan was. He taught her various moves, and when the band began playing the latest Swing tunes, she was able to keep up, moving in perfect sync with him. His reserve slipped while dancing, and she could tell that this was perhaps one of the few truly fun things he let himself do._

 _"You would give Fred Astaire a run for his money!" she said, laughing, as they finally sat down again._

 _"Hardly," he said, sitting down and handing her another Coke. She couldn't get the cap off, and he took it, smacked the top of the bottle against the edge of the table, and caught the cap with his other hand. She laughed and clapped._

 _"Bravo!"_

 _He grinned at her, and she could almost see little hearts popping around her, like the Mickey and Minnie Mouse cartoon. "I reserve displays of talent to only a chosen few."_

 _"Well, then I am greatly honored, Constable Alexander Sullivan."_

 _"What talents do you have?"_

 _India blushed a little. "I took ballet—I can stand on my toes and spin around, like a music box dancer, but then I got too tall. I can cook, though."_

 _"Can you?" He finished his beer. "What do you cook?"_

 _"Anything. I enjoy it immensely. I made hundreds of little Coca-Cola cakes for the care packages we sent out. I got letters back, thanking me for them. Not to brag—but it was nice to know they liked them. I do most of the cooking in the family since my mother can't boil water."_

 _"Tried English food yet?" he asked, and she saw the mischievous spark in his eyes._

 _"Let's not discuss that!" India laughed, and looked up, seeing a clock above the bar. It was almost midnight! "Oh… dear… I really should get home."_

 _He looked back at the clock, then at her. "What, you have a curfew? Or are you Cinderella?"_

 _"I… yes. I mean, I have a… curfew." Or she would if her parents found out she had snuck out. It would be more than just curfew then. It would be a round-the-clock policeman at her door and possibly a chastity belt. "I do still live at home… and… um… perhaps some time I can cook something for you? A nice American-style meal?"_

 _"I'm game for anything, India."_

 _She let him lead her out of the club and into the warm, balmy night, and when he pulled her to him, she slipped her arms around his neck, happily moving into his embrace. He kissed her, India gasping softly as he pushed her gently against the wall. She sighed, completely undone, gasping slightly as his hands moved up to caress her breasts, and she forgot all about what her mother had said about never letting young men touch her 'you know where'. As far as she was concerned, Alexander Sullivan could touch her anywhere and anytime he liked._

* * *

"Wake up."

India gasped and sat up straight, looking around. She was in Sullivan's police car, and when she looked out, eyes still misty from her delicious dream, she was momentarily confused. She blinked and rubbed her eyes, finally realizing they were at Applecross.

"Oh. Yes. Thank you for the ride, Inspector." She snatched up her clutch purse. "Would… would you like to come in?"

Intended or not—surely it wasn't intended!—there was an innuendo to her question that made her cheeks turn pink.

"I had better not."

"It's quite all right. The boys are still back at Errington."

"Then I definitely shouldn't."

Horribly embarrassed, India scrabbled for the door handle, finally remembered how to operate it, and all but stumbled out of the car. She was already at the door, desperately searching for the key in her clutch, and she heard him coming up the steps. He waited until she finally found the key, and he took it from her, unlocking the door and giving it a shove.

"Good night, India."

She couldn't stand it anymore. "Wait. Please… c-come in."

"India… "

"Just some coffee. It's dreadfully cold."

He exhaled and finally followed her into the dark hall. She closed the door, shivering in the chilly front hall, and gestured toward the lounge. She had some trouble with pocket doors, however, and he finally took charge and pulled them apart. "These need some work, I think," he said.

"Yes. Everything in this house needs a bit of updating and sprucing up."

"Don't we all," he muttered.

India clasped her hands together, lips pursed, suddenly at a loss as to what to do next. He waited, looking expectantly at her, and she finally remembered. "Oh! Coffee. Yes. I'll get you some coffee. Sit down."

He looked at the comfortable-looking couch and nodded. She rushed out to the kitchen to put the kettle on and search wildly for the coffee can. It took several minutes, but she finally located it (who the hell put it under the blasted sink?!) and soon she had the coffee kettle bubbling happily. She removed her silver and black dragon necklace and set it on the cabinet, drumming her fingers until the coffee was ready. She poured out two cups, got some cream and sugar and poured them into their respective dishes and carried it all into the lounge on a tray.

It was no surprise to see he had started a fire already, and he set the screen back in place as she came in. She let him take his cup, add cream but no sugar, and he finally sat down, stretching his long legs out and taking an appreciative sip. "You always did make damned good coffee."

"Thank you."

"At the station, I think they put a boot in the kettle." He took another draught and warmed his hands on the cup. India finally sat down next to him, her back straight and her knees together. "We use the coffee to kill rats."

She started giggling, and finally took a sip of her coffee. He took the cup from her and put it on the coffee table.

"I believe you purchased me for fifty pounds. Anything you need done around here? I'm not much for carpentry, but I can hang pictures… "

"I did, didn't I?" She swallowed. Her heart was pounding so hard she could barely hear him. "I think I have something else in mind, actually."

A puissant silent fell between them, and he stared down into the milky depths of his coffee. He finally put the cup down on the coffee table. "India… " He ran a hand through his hair. "You have no idea how much I would like to stay, but… "

"You can. If you… if you still… "

"You'd only regret it. I mean, I know I'd feel fantastic _during_ , but… "

She clasped her hands together. "How do you know that I'd regret it?"

"Because I know who you are, and what you are."

"I know I'm not some silly girl!"

"You were a sixteen-year-old girl." he said, and she saw a flash of anger and even bitterness in his eyes then. "And you didn't bother telling me that until… damn it, why did you keep that from me? Why?"

"I thought you knew!"

"Bloody hell, India… do you really think I'd have a sixteen-year-old girl in my flat at past midnight? I'd have had to arrest myself!"

"Well, I suppose you could have checked _Debrett's_ ," she said, hot tears blurring her vision.

"What, I'm supposed to vet my girlfriends and check their ages before I… "

"Take them to your flat and have sex with them?" she said, knowing she sounded horribly waspish.

"We didn't get that far, and that's not why…" He glared at her and rubbed his face, suddenly so exhausted he could barely stand.

She balled her fists, staring down at her coffee cup as he stood. He went to the fireplace and stood still, gripping the mantelpiece so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"We both made mistakes then, India. You should have told me, and it didn't even dawn on me that you were… too young. I had no idea, and when you told me… " He turned to face her. "You have no idea what that did to me, because by then I was totally… " He rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes. "By then, your mother visited me, and it's a wonder she didn't have me arrested, India."

India could barely breathe now, but she got up. "I didn't know she spoke to you at all."

"She did. What's strange is that she wasn't angry. In fact, she was remarkably… " He paused, casting about. "Kind. She was actually kind. She had had you followed, India, and knew you were seeing me. Yet she still didn't say I was some kind of disgusting cad, taking advantage of young girls."

"She never told me she… " she stared up at him. "Oh, God… what did she say?"

He laughed, somewhat bitterly. "Just that she thought I was an honorable man who would not ruin a young lady's reputation, and that while she knew we had… a great deal of… affection for each other, we had no future. Period."

India covered her face with her hands, and he wished he was dead.

"Her love for us all was ferocious, to the point of being absolutely ruthless," India whispered. "Though I will admit, she was always looking out for our best interests."

"She did have your best interests at heart, India, and she was right."

"So when I told you it was over, and admitted my age… "

"I already knew. She came to my flat on the same night, just a few hours before you came."

She wanted to die then.

"So I had better go. Maybe she was right, India. Maybe it's just… not possible. You're an independent woman now, and I'm just… " He put his cap back on. "I couldn't dishonor you then and I won't do that now. We'd both regret it and I wouldn't be able to live with myself."

"Isn't that my decision?" she said, knowing she sounded terribly desperate. "I never stopped… "

"Don't say it."

"Why? Why can't I say it? Is it because of all that class nonsense? It's almost ninety-fifty-five, Alexander! Hasn't England gotten past all that? I mean, for God's sake, they threw Mr. Churchill out and elected a bunch of wild-eyed socialists after the war!"

His mouth quirked. "I didn't vote for any of them. But that hardly matters, as England will never get past all that. But that's not why. We come from entirely different worlds, India. You know… the fish and the bird… " He shook his head. "But if you think I ever stopped… caring about you, you couldn't be more mistaken. I will always care about you, and if you ever need me… "

"I do need you," she whispered.

"That's not what I'm talking about. Though I can't deny that I'm glad to know what you are are talking about, but we both know it would be wrong." He picked up his coat and put his cap back on. She stood up, reining in her tears as best she could, and she looked up at him when he took her hand. "Good night, India." He kissed her cheek, and she burst into tears, unable to bear it any longer.

"Alexander… "

He released her hand, turned, and left the room without looking back. She heard the front door close, very quietly, and she sat down on the couch, curled up into a ball and wept until she had no more tears to shed. Finally, at just before dawn, she scraped herself up off the couch, climbed the stairs to her room and undressed, staring at herself in her cheval mirror for a long time before she finally got into bed, pulling the blankets up over her head. She fell asleep almost immediately, and woke feeling empty and scrubbed clean, with nothing but resolve to move on with her life. If it meant going mad with grief and loneliness, then so be it, and if it meant settling for what she could get instead of what she wanted… well, she wouldn't be the first woman to lower her standards.

After breakfast, she got up and called the Savoy Hotel in London, booked a room, and then called Boxwood Mansion. She spoke with the butler, who called for his employer, and India put on her most cheerful voice when the familiar voice came on the line.

"Lord Edgefield? Good morning. I was calling you back about your offer to head up to London for dinner and a show. Are you available tonight?"

* * *

Felicia called India after lunch, to check on her (and also to check if Inspector Sullivan could be heard getting dressed in the background), and found the young woman very subdued, her voice flat and cold.

"I'm afraid I can't come out tonight. I'm having dinner with a friend."

"Oh, Inspector Sullivan, I presume?"

"Hardly."

That left Felicia flummoxed. "Really? You two seemed to be getting on quite well last night… "

"And what a difference a few hours can make. I'm going to London, and will be staying at the Savoy until Monday morning."

India hung up before Felicia could respond. She frowned at the phone for several moments, then watched her niece skulk slowly across the room toward the liquor cabinet to look for a bottle of brandy. Bunty had gotten completely snockered last night and had only gotten up a few moments ago, looking like death stuffed into a jar and pickled.

"Just waking up, dearest?" Felicia shouted, and Bunty clutched her head in her hands, moaning.

"You are cruelty itself."

"Nothing less than what you deserve. Flirting like a Spanish filly with every young buck there, including Father Dominic, and getting so inebriated we had to scrape you up off the floor of my Rolls, and I'm paying to have Father Brown's cassock cleaned and Sid is not happy about you vomiting all over his uniform."

"I said I was sorry."

"You said 'I'm as juxtaposed as any featherduster', whatever that meant, and it didn't sound like any kind of apology to me. Besides that, you should be apologizing to Father Brown and poor Sid, and you might want to set up a fund to pay for the counselling poor Father Dominic will need."

"I'm saying I'm sorry now!" Bunty said and clutched her head again. "Come on, Auntie Leesha, please just let me go back to bed!"

"No doing. Go wash the dishes."

"I don't know how to wash dishes!"

"I don't care. Just don't throw up all over them."

* * *

The fact that Inspector Sullivan was an hour late, even on a Saturday, was unusual enough, and he arrived in a strangely silent mood. He went straight into his office and didn't come out all day. He refused all phone calls, and by five o'clock, Goodfellow was starting to get a bit worried. At precisely six o'clock, however, Sullivan came out of his office, looking completely miserable.

Considering Sullivan had been purchased for the hefty sum of £50 at the auction in Brocklesby, everyone had expected him to be out the next day, particularly since his buyer had been that lovely little princess with the smashing legs (and who would ever think of a princess buying a copper?). It would have been quite a story to tell, but instead, it was kind of a letdown. Though frankly, it had to be much more of a letdown for Sullivan.

She must have turned the poor fellow down. Goodfellow was tempted to ask if the man wanted to go down to the pub for a consoling drink. God knew he looked like he needed one.

"Er… heading home, sir?" Goodfellow asked cautiously as Sullivan put his hat on.

"Nowhere else to go," Sullivan mumbled.

The constables looked at each other, wondering, but they knew never to try to pry into Sullivan's life. They had been working with him now for almost four years and they didn't even know his birthdate. Goodfellow shook his head sadly, wondering how anyone could live like that. If it could even be called living.

* * *

The Savoy Hotel's restaurant was regarded as one of the best in England, and India tried to keep an open mind—she knew that food was not all there was to life, after all, and she should explore other cultures and other cuisines—she had done so in France (and ended up living on bread and cheese) and in Germany (the smell of sauerkraut made her stomach flip) and Italy (where had she gained weight and needed a trip to England to lost the extra pounds). But when the waiter brought her meal and set it down in front of her, she almost gagged. It was something called chicken piccata, but with one bite she could tell that the chicken had lived a bleak life in a tiny cage and stuffed every day until it finally met its miserable end. She thought of her grandmother's happy, table-scrap fed, free-range chickens at home in Texas—they lived in fowl heaven until the day their heads hit the block. She looked down at the miserable carcass in front of her and sighed.

The Earl of Edgefield smiled at her and tucked into his meal, and India did what she often did when dining with someone and was presented with a meal she couldn't eat. She began hiding pieces of the chicken in various places, while the Earl wasn't watching. Soon the salt cellar was stuffed with pieces of miserable, stringy chicken, and she cut her piece of (horrible) bread into two thin slices and hid the rest of the chicken between the slices. When the Earl began expounding on the quality of a bottle of wine he had purchased from some vintner in Umbria, she practiced the sleight of hand her brothers had taught her and artfully hid the remains of the meal under her plate. The waiters would be in for a surprise later, but so be it.

"… such an excellent bouquet, though I daresay it had a touch of too much vanilla and was a tad oaky. What do you think?"

India looked across the table, counting £50 notes in her head. That much could buy dozens of eggs. Gallons of sweet milk. Several dozen loaves of bread. Cans of Wolf Brand chili, which wasn't as good as her own but would do in a pinch. It could buy several roasts, piles of onions and potatoes, and boxes of grits and bags of cornmeal and Navy beans. It could feed an entire village in Africa for a year. It could buy several nice Chanel dresses in Paris, or pay for a trip to Fiji, where she could lie on the beach wearing nothing whatsoever and still dream about Alexander sodding Sullivan, who refused to sleep with her, even after she had shelled out £50 for him.

What was she, toxic?

The man across from her was perfectly nice, socially prominent, and from an ancient and powerful family that had been involved in Britain's history, politics and Society for generations. He had gone to the right schools, attended the right parties, knew all the right people, was kin to everybody who counted, and was easily the most boring person she had ever encountered.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"The wine, India. What do you think of the wine? I brought it especially for you to try."

"Oh. Right. It's very nice." She took a quick drink, so she wouldn't be lying—she hadn't even tasted it up until now. But then she was disappointed—it was horrible.

He looked pleased.

She had not been surprised when Lord Edgefield had leapt at the chance to take her Town. He was apparently staying at the Savoy, too, because after the show ( _Follow the Girls_ , of all things), he had brought her to the hotel and charged his meal to his room. She was, therefore, hungry, tired and fully aware of what he might be expecting of her.

Try as she might, though, she couldn't see herself tossing off her knickers and diving under the sheets with him. He didn't possess the… equipment she needed. That is, she knew he had the equipment, but it wasn't the right make or model to meet her needs. She also knew that what she needed was a proper schtupping, and the one man she knew could finally satisfy her had turned her down flat.

She sighed and closed her eyes, holding the cold champagne glass against her cheek. She had consumed three glasses of the bubbly stuff already and was happy to break into the wine now.

"Are you all right, India?"

"Peachy with a side of keen, Your Lordship," she said. "Good thing I got a room here. I need to sleep off this wine." She hiccoughed elegantly. "What was your name again… your Christian name, that is."

"Ivor."

"Right. Ivor. Name for a horse. Yes. Thank you. It's been a lovely evening. Nice show, too, though I can't remember a thing about it."

"Thank you, Your Highness… I'm glad you've enjoyed yourself."

"India."

"Yes. India… I was wondering… "

"I don't put out on the first date, Your Lordship." She drank the last of her wine. "At least not usually."

His eyes widened in momentary shock. "Oh. Um… well, that's not what I was about to… "

"And as for this," she said, waving the now empty wine glass in the air. "I mean, it's wine. It doesn't matter if it's cheap rotgut or a bottle of Chateau Petrus: I don't give a damn. This wine you brought tonight tastes like bat spit, to be quite honest. So while you're jabbering away about it, expounding at length about bouquets and whether it tastes like oak or if it has a hint of vanilla, and describing the caramelizing that occurs when wine barrels are fired, or the quality of one years' vintage over another, I'm wishing I had a _gun_."

"Your Highness, I'm terribly so—"

She waved her hand. "But of course, here in England, you don't need guns, as you have kidney pie and this five-star slop that they wouldn't feed pigs they didn't like in Texas. Never mind. Can we talk about something other than wine?"

He looked bewildered. "Um… of course… "

"So when Never Say Die won the Derby, did y'all just want to rend your clothes and gnash your teeth?"

Lord Edgefield looked a bit nonplussed. "Well, we were… a little… shocked."

"Why? Because he was foaled in Kentucky?" India poured herself another glass of wine.

"Well, he was a longshot… "

"Because he was foaled in Kentucky." She took a swig of wine, determined to get completely schnockered, no matter what, because otherwise, there was no way she could be sober, see him naked and not laugh.

"I hardly… his form wasn't exactly great before the race… though I will say he won in grand fashion, and I'm sure you Americans… I mean, the Americans who bred him, were over the moon."

The wine was having its desired effect, and India felt giddy, her good sense sailing away on champagne bubbles and dreadful wine.

"Then he won the St. Leger. I short... sort of know the people who bred him. Dja know he wash shick as a foal and they kep' him alive wish Kentucky Bourbon? That'sh why they named him Never Shay Die… Never _Say_ Die. He wouldn't die." She gulped down the entire glassful of wine and filled the glass up again, to the rim, feeling the room begin to spin, and she was glad to succumb to the alcohol. "Losh of shtuff refushes to die, you know. Like… like when you get yer heart broken, an' it keepsh on beating and it won't shtop loving him, and when ya ask him to shtay and he refushes because it wouldn't be 'honorable' or some sush…such nonshense … " She wiped her eyes. "Lesh go upshtairs and an' get thish over wif, 'kay?"

Lord Edgefield sighed and put his glass down. "I think you do need to go to bed, Your Highness."

"Thash no' wha' I mean!" she snapped. "If you won' do it, then I'm sure your twin there will be happy to take yer playsh! I need a schtupping, dammit! Now come on, Lord Fieldedgsh… up to thine own shen of din. I mean den of shin. England exsphecks ever' good man to do hish duty, hey, hey, cheerio!"

* * *

"There are some strange lights coming from out at Applecross," Goodfellow said. Sullivan, sitting on his bed, shivering in the cold (as just punishment, he had let the fire die), held the phone receiver to his ear and looked at the clock. Three in the bloody morning. "Neighbors across the road called in, and they're worried about the…uh… princess."

Sullivan rubbed his eyes. "I'm on… duty, right. Of course." He sighed and searched around the room for his trousers. "I'll meet you at the station and we'll head on over."

"Very good, sir. Sorry to call you, but it's Sunday and… "

"Never mind." He hung up and almost fell over the blanket twisted around his ankle. He scrambled around for his clothes, dressed, forgot his watch and dashed out into the night, hoping his shoes matched. Within less than ten minutes, he and Goodfellow were at the Applecross estate, turning off the car lights and not running the bell as they approached. They saw lights flashing in the window in the front western side of the house, which Sullivan figured was probably the library—he had only been in the lounge, after all, and it had been on the eastern side. They let the car coast into the circular drive and got out slowly, making as little noise as possible.

Sullivan knew that on old country estates, a second main door key was often kept under a largish planter on the front portico, and sure enough when he lifted the heavy pot of geraniums, a skeleton key was there. Goodfellow snatched it up and Sullivan silently set the pot back in place. He tested the door first and found that it was locked, so he quietly opened it and slipped into the front foyer, Goodfellow following.

A set of pocket doors blocked entry to the front room, and Sullivan paused, puzzled when he heard noises inside the room. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a loud thump, followed by another and another. The two policemen looked at each other, baffled, as the loud thudding continued. He looked around a moment, then tried the lentil for a key. Sure enough, his search yielded what he was looking for, and he gingerly began unlocking the door.

"Oi, wait… shh… " he heard someone whisper from the other side of the door. "I hear something."

"Over this hammerin'? There's nobody here! Keep at it!"

The thumping resumed, the key clicked and the mechanism unlocked. Sullivan and Goodfellow moved to either side of the pocket doors and began pulling them apart. At the same moment, they heard the sounds of two heavy objects hitting the floor, frantic footsteps, and the sound of glass breaking. Sullivan ducked his head in and saw a man diving out the shattered window, leaving behind a piece of his shirt. He rushed in after him, but was too late—the man, dressed in black, was already up and racing across the moonlit field, following his compatriot, who was several yards ahead.

Sullivan saw a black car waiting for them, just past the edge of the estate property line. Goodfellow had already dashed out and around the house, racing after them, but that was a futile task, even as he blew his whistle. Sullivan narrowed his eyes, taking in the make and model of the car—a Vauxhall 10 that had clearly seen better days, but he couldn't see well enough to note any plate numbers. Just the same, he knew he'd recognize the car if he saw it again-he had no trouble storing it in his memory, like a photograph.

Goodfellow came back, and Sullivan looked around the room, and he tipped his hat back, bewildered.

The two intruders had used a pair of sledgehammers—left behind—to break large holes into the right side of the fireplace in the library. Sullivan turned on the lights and he and Goodfellow examined the wall, noting that the plastering had been destroyed and the intruders had only managed to start making chinks in the bricks behind it, to the point that there was a tiny hole allowing cold air to whistle into the room. Brow furrowed, Sullivan walked out of the library and followed his nose down a long hallway into an absolutely enormous kitchen.

"Good God, this is a woman-killer," he said, looking around the vast room. But that was unimportant now. He went out to the terrace through a set of French doors, which opened into a spacious loggia, and looked at the brick wall. "The library wall would only have got them out here," he said, finding the little hole. Goodfellow pushed his cap back, bewildered.

"That's a rum 'un, isn't it?"

Sullivan nodded.

"Either they found what they were looking for in the wall, or they didn't know what they were doing," Sullivan finally concluded. It was impossible to know for sure.

"A lot of these old manor houses have secret rooms and cellars from the Henry the Eighth's day, to hide priests and the like—maybe they were looking for something like that?" Sergeant Goodfellow wondered.

"If they were, they didn't scout this place out very well before they started breaking down the damned wall. There's no secret room back there. If we hadn't come along, I suppose they might have knocked down every wall in the house."

They went back into the house and trailed into the library. Sullivan looked around the room, noting how sparsely it was furnished. Just a couch facing the fireplace, a large rolltop desk set with its back to the front windows, and across the room an old but elegant Chippendale secretary desk stood in between a set of built-in bookshelves, it's hinged desktop down and the doors to the bookcase opened. None of the drawers had been disturbed, and a few papers were still on both the rolltop desk and on the secretary. Sullivan idly glanced at the papers, recognizing India's handwriting—they were just outgoing cheques and a few bills, and the intruders had had no interest in them whatsoever. He pulled a drawer open in the secretary desk and saw a small stack of American dollar bills, and pushed it closed again.

"That's possible," Sullivan nodded. "I'm guessing that Indi—the princess is upstairs hiding with her boys."

"I'll go check," Goodfellow said. Sullivan stopped him before he could even take a step on the stairs.

"I'll go. Keep looking around."

"Yes, sir."

Sullivan climbed the stairs and paced down the long hallway, checking each room, noting that they were all huge. Two rooms were obviously for one boy each, and each had sturdy beds, bookshelves, and a few toys had been taken out and settled onto shelves, including what he vaguely recognized as baseball bats, balls and gloves, as well as what looked like a oblong leather thing that he thought was an American football. Continuing on down the hall, he found the master suite and warily stepped in, dreading coming across India cowering in a corner, clutching her two sons and scared out of her mind.

Instead… the room was empty. He turned on the light and looked around, noting that several dresses had been thrown across the bed, and a few more were hanging off the corner of a large cheval mirror. Slips and silky underthings were all over the place, and he picked up a silk negligee and fingered it, catching her familiar scent—Chanel 5.

When he heard Goodfellow coming up the stairs, he tossed it back on the bed and paced on into the bathroom, but there was no sign of her in there, either, aside from… dear God, lacy, delicate little brassieres and knickers hanging from the shower railings, drying out. He rushed out of the bathroom and almost collided with Goodfellow, feeling feverish. If he hadn't been such a jackass, he could be asleep there, beside her in the bed. Oh, hell, he wouldn't be asleep, and neither would she, and the neighbors would be worried about lights being on all night in her bedroom, because he definitely wouldn't be finished for quite some time.

Who was he kidding? He would never be finished.

"She's not here, it seems. Her boys aren't here, either."

Cold terror gripped Sullivan's heart. Where the hell was she? He looked around the room, then noticed a small pad of writing paper by the phone. He picked up the pad. "Edgefield. Savoy Hotel. Marlene Deitrich Suite. 6.15. Follow the Girls'."

"Oh. So she's gone to London," Goodfellow said, looking relieved. "So at least now we know she's safe. I suspect she took her boys out to either Lady Felicia's or to Errington to stay over… night. I wonder who Edgefield is?"

Sullivan felt his knees almost give way, and he smacked the pad of paper back down by the phone. "The Earl of Edgefield. Boxwood Mansion."

"Oh." Goodfellow scratched his ear, not saying it out loud, and unable to look Sullivan in the eye. The detective stalked past him and back down the stairs. Goodfellow followed him out into the night, and caught the look on his boss's face., and almost spoke, but Sullivan pointed at him, jaw clenched.

"Shut up, Goodfellow."

"Shutting up, sir."

Sullivan got in the car, slamming the door so hard Goodfellow was surprised he didn't break the window. He got in, Sullivan started the engine and they drove back to the station in silence.


	7. Chapter 7

This one got _wordy_.

* * *

Sullivan's first order of business, once he knew someone was likely to be awake by then, was to call Lady Felicia. She answered, sounding a little hung over, and he wondered if she would be heading off to Mass or sleeping something off.

"Lady Felicia, someone broke into the Princess von Altburg's home last night and did a bit of damage to her library wall. Have you heard from her this morning?"

There was a long pause, some sniffling, and finally she asked, "Someone what?"

"Someone. Broke. Into. The Princess's. House."

"Dear God! What time is it?"

"It's eight-thirty, Lady Felicia."

"Oh. Right. Yes. Well… erm… no, I have not heard from her. She's in London. Staying at the Savoy."

"Ah. Very good."

"Wait… did they… did they steal anything?"

"I am only calling to confirm her whereabouts. Good morning, Lady Felicia, and thank you." He hung up and put on his coat and hat. Goodfellow greeted him with a folder, which he knew was regarding the Ridgley dogs. "Let Wells handle it—he likes dogs. I have some… er… something to do. Meanwhile, get some constables over to Applecross and have them check the library and the rest of the house for any evidence, and dust for fingerprints. I suspect those two sledgehammer-wielding burglars were locals."

"Yes, sir. Uh… where are you going, sir?"

He paused, staring across the street at the little curio shop. "To collect the princess and bring her back home."

"Ah. Very good sir." He saw Sullivan's eyes narrow and gulped. "Sorry, sir. Shutting up!"

* * *

India woke up feeling as though all of Sherman's wretched army of arsonists was marching across her brain. Her eyes were burning, as though someone had been scratching them with steel wool. Her tongue seemed to have grown hair overnight, and on top of that, some horribly ill creature had crawled into her mouth and died.

Then she realized where she was, and her misery only intensified. She rolled over and covered her head with the pillow, moaning in horror and humiliation and nausea unlike anything she had experienced since morning sickness.

"Oh, dear God. What did I do?" she whispered, and even her own voice sounded as if though someone was banging cymbals right by her ear.

She had gotten drunk, that's what. Smashed, schnockered, plastered, three sheets to the wind, knee-walking, toilet-hugging drunk. On champagne and copious amounts of third-rate wine from Umbria. She had done something with a plate of unhappy chicken that had gotten the waiter rather upset. She had insulted her dining companion, but could not for the life of her remember who she had eaten with or even what he looked like, though she was sure he didn't have dark hair, hazel-green eyes and an air of command Patton would envy. And even worse…

Even worse…

She looked around the room and saw a dozen pink roses in a vase on the bedside table. Cautiously, terrified of what she might see, she lifted the blanket and looked down, and was both puzzled and relieved to see she was still wearing the dress she had worn to the theatre last night. Whoever had put her to bed had not undressed her, even just down to her skivvies. Her feet were bare, at least, but she was still wearing her silk stockings. So maybe she hadn't done what she thought she had done, and if she hadn't, then just being hungover would be the worst thing to go through today. Scrambled eggs, coffee, a few chocolate mints, a great deal of self-flagellation, profuse apologies and a long train ride back to Kembleford, and she would be all right. By Tuesday morning she would be able to collect her sons and try to get on with her life and avoid Alexander Sullivan, town gossips be damned.

Oh, who was she kidding? She would sell Applecross and flee back to the States, move into the old house at Buchanan and live alone after her boys graduated from school and moved away. She would shrivel up and collect cats (no better form of punishment there) and become known as 'that crazy old Cat Lady' and wear black, like a proper widow.

Head pounding, India managed to crawl out of bed without falling down, then stumbled across the room to the closet. She had only brought two changes of clothes, one for today (Sunday? Was it still Sunday?) and one for travelling back home tomorrow. If she had any sense or nerve, she would hire a taxi out to Turnbridge Wells to attend worship, but she wasn't sure she would be able to sit up straight long enough to even take communion. While she knew many of the members of that little congregation and loved them dearly, she wasn't sure she could endure trying to talk to them now. They would ask her questions, out of genuine kindness and concern, and she wasn't sure she could answer, and attempting to sing a hymn right now might well kill her, however much good it might do for her soul.

The hotel at least provided a fine silk bathrobe, and she snatched it up and managed to get into the bathroom and turn the shower on—oh, how she loved showers over baths at a time like this! It took only a few moments for the water to get suitably hot and she clambered in, clutching at the wall like a frightened palmetto bug to keep her balance. The hot water made her yelp, but it revived her spirits at least a little and helped her think a little more clearly.

She washed her hair, too, and pulled it back into a ponytail when she got out of the shower, and methodically dried herself and fought her way into the robe, finding the armholes very difficult to locate. After that, she stumbled back into the sitting room and plopped onto the sofa, trying to gather up pieces of whatever she could of her activities of the night before. There was a television set, but she barely knew how to turn it on and had never found one thing worth watching anyway. She still preferred the radio—Arthur Godfrey and the Grand Ole Opry at home, and The Goon Show in England.

Giving in to just whining, she curled up on the couch and moaned, trying to snatch up bits and pieces of last night's dreadful festivities. She remembered going to a musical. Or at least she had been somewhere where people had started dancing about and singing, without provocation, and that didn't generally happen in real life. She had been with someone, but he seemed very grey—completely colorless, and however she tried to conjure up his face, it was blank. It certainly couldn't have been Alexander, as he had kicked her to the proverbial kerb. The meal had been dreadful, and drinking a lot of champagne and wine on an empty stomach was a tad unwise.

Okay, it was dumb. Stupid. Idiotic, even. If she had slept with whoever she had been out with last night, it would indicate she might require a stay at Bedlam, but at least she hadn't done that. Or she was pretty sure hadn't. Usually, after sex, she felt a kind of pleasant muzziness, and she certainly wasn't feeling that, and she had gotten a bit tipsy with Fritz a few times. In fact, Sebastian was the result of her drinking one too many glasses of potent Trockenbeerenauslese-variety wine, which she hadn't been able to pronounce when sober, and while drunk it became a bad comedy skit.

Trying to remember who she had been with was giving her a headache, however, and so finally she just gave up, took off the robe and climbed, naked, back into bed, not giving a flying fig any more. Like that silly fool Scarlett O'Hara had said, she would think about it tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day.

* * *

"I'm looking for the Princess von Altburg," Sullivan said.

The concierge eyed Sullivan coolly and gave him one of those condescending smiles that only concierges could give—the kind that was best answered with a rap in the mouth.

"I'm sorry, sir, but we do not reveal the names of our guests, nor do we call any of them down to the front desk to be confronted by… " he eyed Sullivan for a moment, lifting his nose just a bit. "Just anyone."

Sullivan clenched his fists for a moment. "I am with the Kembleford, Gloucestershire police and I need to speak with Her Highness about a break-in at her home."

The concierge didn't bat an eye. "The Princess will be informed of your visit here, Constable… "

"Detective Inspector Sullivan."

The concierge only looked down his long nose at him, and Sullivan figured he had been hired because of that nose, because it couldn't have been because of any kind of egalitarian attitude, plus the stuck-up wally had a French accent, so good manners were not on the menu. The phone rang and the tuxedoed toff answered with a rich "Good morning, you have reached the Savoy Hotel Concierge Desk. How might I assist you?"

Sullivan snatched the phone from the man, smacking it back down on its cradle. The man glared at him, offended.

"Do you see that bell?" Sullivan asked mildly, nodding toward the richly embossed gold call bell.

"Of course I do, sir."

"Do you want to spend a very unpleasant time, a day or so from now, attempting to pass that bell?"

That broke the concierge's nerve, and he blinked. "Her Serene Highness is in suite 510. Fifth floor."

"Thank you. I commend you for your excellent service." Sullivan touched the brim of his hat and headed to the lift.

* * *

"Your Highness? Please, might I come in? I believe I lost a cufflink in your room last night."

India sat up in the bed, momentarily terrified, then mortified because she still had no idea who she had been with last night, and for that matter, she was naked. Her headache was somewhat less horrible, but she still had a dreadful taste in her mouth, and she decided that once whoever this was left, she would call down for some breakfast (or… actually, lunch) and some good strong coffee. Miserably, she climbed out of bed, scrambled about on the sofa for the robe, tied her flyaway hair back with a ribbon, and went out to the door, making sure her robe was properly closed. She cautiously opened the door, and stared out at a rather thin, weedy man in a nice suit.

"Good morning, Your Highness. I'm dreadfully sorry to disturb you, as I'm sure you're not feeling particularly well. But I think I lost a cufflink and I must return home tonight… "

"Oh. Lord… Edgert—Edgemo—Edgefield! Yes. That's it. Edgefield. The Earl of Edgefield. Ivor! Ivor Bramleigh, Earl of Edgefield. Sixth Earl. Um… feel free to look around… er… wherever."

He smiled and stepped in, going into the bedroom first. India leaned against the wall, eyes closed and wishing she could just die right now—he had been in the bedroom with her?! Some things were coming back to her, and in brilliantly well-colored, appalling detail… particularly the word 'schtupping' and something about England expecting all good men to do their duty, and…

Had she said something about bat spit?

What the bloody hell had she done last night? For all she knew, she might have fell out a window and landed on the awning outside, or gone out and stolen the left shoe of everyone in London, or rustled horses out of the Royal Mews. But not even that would have been as horrible as sleeping with a man she barely knew and felt nothing for aside from polite indifference.

She closed the door and made it to the sofa, sitting down, still clutching her robe tightly at her chest. She let herself sit back on the cushions, though, because her head was starting to throb a little, and she heard another knock at the door. Wearily, she rose and went to answer, opening the door just as Lord Edgefield came out of the bedroom, holding up the gold, engraved cufflink. "I must say, I seem to have gotten lucky!"

India couldn't move as she stared at Sullivan, who stared back at her, eyes wide with shock, and then he looked at Lord Edgefield, who initially smiled broadly, but his smile faded at the look on the detective's face.

"Oh, you must be from room service. I'm sure Her Highness would greatly appreciate some coffee… where's the cart?"

"I am not with room service. I'm with the Kembleford Police and I need to take Indi—… the Princess von Altburg back to her home. Someone broke into Applecross last night and did a good bit of damage to a wall in your library."

"A break-in?" Lord Edgefield looked bewildered. "Good heavens!"

"Yes," Sullivan said tightly.

"Oh, yes… Sullivan, was it? Edgefield." He held out his hand, but Sullivan did not take it.

"I'll be waiting for you downstairs, Your Highness." He looked up and down at her state of undress, then at the Earl, who was still holding the cufflink up, turned on his heel and left, slamming the door behind him, the noise ricocheting through her head like a bullet and making her need to sit down again. She covered her face with her hands and let out a shriek of rage, frustration and utter humiliation.

* * *

Felicia called Father Brown as soon as her head stopped aching, and begged him to meet her at Applecross after Mass. "I take it you will not be in attendance?" he asked her, and she sensed disapproval in his voice.

"Erm… we had a late night out. Just need to… uh… recover. We can meet there after lunch."

"Has something happened to the princess?"

"Not to her, but someone apparently did some damage to a wall in her library. Very curious indeed."

There was a long pause. "I'll be there."

* * *

The Earl was very nice about the whole debacle. India apologized to him from inside the bathroom, where she was dressing as quickly as she could. When she finally emerged, dressed in pair of warm trousers and a silk blouse under a denim jacket, she searched around frantically for her shoes until she remembered they were in the closet.

"So he's the one, hm?"

India found the shoes at last and hurriedly stuffed her feet into them, then began searching for her day-to-day purse (a small leather saddlebag) and finally located it under the bed. She got the dresses out of the closet and zipped them back into their bags.

"I'm sorry… I don't… "

"That detective. You mentioned last night that you couldn't stop loving someone. He's the one?"

India gasped and sat down on the chest at the foot of the bed, and the Earl only looked sympathetic.

"He doesn't want me," she finally said, desperate to finally pour her heart out to someone. "He said as much."

"Well, then he's a bloody fool… but from the way he looked at you, I don't think that's quite the problem. Different worlds, different backgrounds, maybe a bit of pride getting in the way on both your parts, right? Souls knit together forever, regardless, and in those cases, you can't stop it any more than you can stop a tsunami."

She stood and dashed around the room, gathering up her belongings as quickly as she could and stuffing them into her suitcase. She had always traveled light, having no need for huge trunks and hatboxes and makeup kits (thus delighting ship stewards). A brush, a comb, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a small toiletry kit, hand lotion, perfume, her favorite peppermint candy, a small alarm clock, a sleep mask, a secret stash of money for emergencies, shampoo, clean underwear, a pair of denim trousers, a comfortable pullover shirt and some penny loafers completed the contents of the suitcase, and she soon had everything gathered. She shoved the spare shoes into one of the dress bags and zipped it closed again.

"Call room service, Your Highness, and they will carry your things for you."

"This is it," she said, looking around. She sighed and looked around the elegant room and the dozen pink roses. "I'm so sorry about… well, everything."

"Stop apologizing. At least now I know why you got so… um… inebriated."

"You mean pissed as a newt," she muttered. "I really should be going… "

"Allow me to offer a bit of advice, Your Highness. Firstly, I think you should have it out with Inspector Sullivan. Regardless of the outcome, things have not been settled between you two yet. Secondly, your shoes should match."

She stared at him, bewildered. "They should match my purse?"

"They should match each other."

* * *

He was seething.

It had taken one day for her to…

One day, and she was shacking up with that weedy git? Had she lost her bloody mind? Sullivan was certain he was losing his, and the past twenty-four hours had been hell for him, and yet here she was, at the Savoy, wearing nothing but a bathrobe and looking… debauched, with the Earl of Edgefield coming out of the bathroom holding a cufflink and looking quite pleased with himself and saying he had gotten lucky.

Of course he had been pleased with himself. Who wouldn't be?

It was impossible to sit. He paced up and down in the one of the little lounge areas of the hotel, smelling expensive leather and Cuban cigars. It had taken every ounce of strength he had to maintain any degree of self-control, but he wasn't sure just how much longer he could hold himself together. In the past, with the very few women he had let himself get involved with, when it had been over, it had been over and he had been able to walk away (and so had she), with no hard feelings and no regrets, but when it came to India it was a different matter all together.

The concierge was eyeing him, but so far was keeping his trap shut. Sullivan took his hat off and wished to God he had his sketchpad with him—he could draw a picture of himself stabbing that weedy little ponce to death with a meat fork. The idea of that man in bed with India… it didn't bear thinking about.

God help him, it was all he could think about, and it was driving him mad.

"Inspector Sullivan."

She was standing there, looking lovely, if a little green around the gills, and he exhaled.

"Your Highness."

"I assume we will be traveling by train."

He had to give her marks for standing up straight and looking him right in the eye. She had inherited a great deal of class and hauteur from her blue-blooded ancestors, but he suspected she was calling on her finger-consuming great-grandfather for strength right now.

"Yes. The three-fifteen," he finally said.

"Very well."

She had a small suitcase at her feet, and was carrying two dress bags. Sullivan took the suitcase and bags before she could object and stalked out of the hotel lobby and outside into the bracing cold. She followed, and found him waiting beside a taxi. The driver quickly took the bags and the suitcase and put them in the boot, then held the door for her. Sullivan went around the other side and got in, and sat staring straight ahead, jaw locked.

"And good morning to you, too, Inspector," she said, once she was settled in and the taxi moved into traffic.

"I am not here for pleasantries, ma'am. I only came to take you back to Applecross, then there will be a few questions and you'll need to look through your property to see if anything has been taken. After that, the Kembleford police will conduct a thorough investigation and the men who broke into your home will be captured, tried and convicted."

She said nothing more. He closed his eyes and called himself every name he could think of, then started making up a few new, particularly vile terms.

* * *

The train was five minutes late, which irritated Sullivan immensely. India sat on a bench on the platform, subdued and pale, her little suitcase at her side and her dress bags across her lap. She tried to think of anything that could settle her nerves and make her stomach stop doing flips. Finally, she let her mind drift a bit to warm, sunny days along the Llano River, helping her brothers run tro't lines and laughing at them while they tried to 'noodle' catfish. She had cut her proverbial teeth at learning to fish there, and had brought down a 10-point buck one crisp November day near the northwest shore of Lake Buchanan, on her great-grandfather's land. It had been a long time since she had been able to go hunting, though she had been the one to take Maximillian on his first wild hog hunt. Her brothers had been proud of the boy for doing so well (a two-hundred pound boar!), but had been prouder of her for teaching him about safety, accuracy and humane treatment of even a garden-ruining wild pig. The boy's bullet had killed the boar instantly…

The train finally came screaming into the station, and Sullivan grabbed her bags, making her jump.

"It's time to go."

"Yes. Right." She picked up her little saddle bag and watched him climb aboard, setting her bags down and then holding his hand out for her to grab. She grabbed a handrail instead and hauled herself in. He snatched up her bags again and carried them through the narrow passage until he found an empty compartment and shoved the doors open and let her pass. She sat down, looking out the window at the people getting on and off. There were warm embraces and kisses exchanged by people leaving and arriving, and her eyes stung with tears.

Sullivan sat down across from her, and picked up a newspaper someone had left behind. "How are you?" he finally asked her, his icy reserve slipping just a tiny bit, and she saw real concern in his eyes.

She blushed and looked down at her hands, which were clasped tightly together. She pried them apart. "I'm fine. And you?"

"Fine." He shook the paper irritably. "Probably not doing as well as Lord Edgefield, though."

She bristled immediately. "And what is that supposed to mean, Inspector?"

He began reading. India, however, was not so easily put off. She snatched it away from him and threw it down beside her. "What. Do. You. Mean?"

"I mean that he was saying that he had been lucky. And he said that as he was coming out of the bedroom, and you were standing there wearing nothing but a silk _wrap_ ," he answered in a low growl.

She pursed her lips together tightly and clenched her fists and called on her great-grandfather's fierce Scots-Irish blood and her mother's elegant, beautifully-bred Hungarian steel to finally give him what-for. "Think whatever you wish, you cold-hearted, unfeeling, sanctimonious prig. But as you do not own me, and in fact intimated to me two nights ago that you have no interest in me whatsoever, your opinion is neither here nor there, and besides which, while I appreciate you coming to collect me, I can only hope that at best you might get a cool place in hell, Alexander James Sullivan!"

He snatched the newspaper away from her, opened it again and began reading. India growing fury wasn't going to cool by his ignoring her, however. She snatched the paper away again, leaving pieces in his hand. He crumbled up the torn pieces and for a moment she thought he might throw them at her, but he was fighting for control, and for a moment, she felt a _frisson_ of sympathy for him. His eyes were blazing, however, and had she been a man she knew she would no longer be conscious. She lifted her chin and got ready for a fight nonetheless.

The door to the compartment opened suddenly and a tiny old man and his even tinier wife came in. Sullivan politely got up and moved over to sit beside India, giving the old woman a polite nod and touching the brim of his hat. India, years of careful training at her mother's knee kicking in, smiled kindly at the couple. Frankly, she was grateful for their presence—it meant she could ignore Sullivan and plot his murder later.

"Good afternoon. Spending Christmas outside the City?"

"Yes. We're going out to Brocklesby to visit our grandchildren for the holidays."

"Oh, that's lovely," India said. "Do you have very many grandchildren?"

"Four in Brocklesby and six more in London," the old woman said, beaming and blinking rather myopically. "The whole family is gathering there, in fact."

"How nice. I was recently in Brockelsby, and though it a very charming little town. I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time there, and I hope you can stay warm. It's been such a cold winter, but the snow is quite beautiful, isn't it?"

The old woman looked pleased, and the old man looked back and forth between Sullivan and India. "How long have you two been together?"

Sullivan picked up the torn newspaper and made a derisive snort.

"We are not a couple," India said, looking out the window. The train was moving now, making its way out of the City and meandering northwest toward Gloucestershire, passing snowy fields and idyllic little snow-covered villages.

"Oh. Well, you look like a couple," the old woman said, looking Sullivan over carefully, amused. "A quarreling couple, anyway."

India glanced at Sullivan, who was still reading the newspaper, but she could tell he wasn't really reading at all. His hands had formed into fists as he gripped the paper, and his knee had begun to bounce.

"What are your names?" India asked kindly.

"Harriet and Harvey Fielding. And what is your name, Miss?" Harriet asked.

"India Collins. Now… shall I call the steward and request he get a warm blanket for you, Mrs. Fielding? It's rather chilly in here."

Sullivan turned the pages, and tried to smooth out the crumpled edges that he had been gripping so tightly. The old woman admitted her feet were cold, and India started to get up, but Sullivan folded the paper and opened the door. A steward soon appeared, and Sullivan spoke briefly with him. A few moments later, he returned and gave Mrs. Fielding a thick wool blanket. India helped spread the blanket out and saw to it that it was covering the old woman's legs. "There now. Is that better?"

"Very much, Miss. You're very kind. You're an American?"

"I am. Well… one quarter. One quarter English and half Hungarian, but I was raised in Texas, for the most part."

The old man looked at Sullivan, who was still hidden behind the open newspaper and seemed to realize that conversation with him was out of the question.

"In which part of London do you live?" India asked, needing to discuss anything, as it would soothe her nerves.

They told her they were from Waterloo Quarter, and began asking her questions about her native country, about which they had the usual misconceptions. They showed her pictures of their children and grandchildren, and she told them about the Texas Hill Country and described fried catfish, barbecue and chicken fried steak, which had them both more than a little intrigued. As usual, India's natural charm and friendliness had cast a spell, but when they left, she took her seat across from Sullivan again and neatly folded the blanket, having regained control of her emotions, at least a little.

"And they'd never know they talked for all this time with a princess," Sullivan said from behind the newspaper. "Of course, Lord Edgefield is likely telling everyone he knows that he spent an evening with a princess."

That did it. She got up and snatched the paper out of his hands, leaving larger portions of it in his fists. He shot to his feet, furious. "Stop doing that, India!"

"You are such a jackass!" she snarled at him, squaring off against him like a little bantam hen taking on a full-sized cockerel.

"That's a lot coming from you!" he snapped back. "You hop into bed with the first toffy-nosed ponce who buys you dinner and yet _I'm_ the jackass!"

She slapped him, hard, and he recoiled, a red handprint already forming on his cheek. He stepped forward, growling, and she went to slap him again, he caught her arm, and her gaze dropped to his mouth, her heart racing, and she gasped when he pulled her a little closer. The compartment door opened suddenly and Sullivan released her, stepping back and sitting down again, opening the paper with much more vigor than necessary and resuming the act of pretending to read.

India bit off a scream of rage and frustration and sat down again, crossing her knees and sliding closer to the window. The plump businessman entering the compartment looked back and forth between them and took a step back, alarmed, but India gave him a warm, if somewhat tense, smile.

"Please sir, sit down. Are you on your way to Kembleford too?"

"Um… "

"And we'll be passing the historic and elegant home of the Earl of Edgefield—Boxwood Mansion—soon," Sullivan said coldly. "I'm sure the Princess von Altburg there can tell you all about it." He gave up on the newspaper and put it down. It had been crumpled and torn so badly that it was impossible to read anyway.

India's fists clenched and she was glad she didn't have a stick or a gun.

"Pr—rincess?" the man said, looking at her in utter astonishment. "Oh… I… " He looked at Sullivan, who was still and silent, arms folded and looking at anything he could except her. The train passed Boxwood Mansion, a large, elegant house, its original brick coloring long ago faded to a soft pink-sandstone color, and it reflected perfectly in the icy pond in front, its Palladian windows glinting in the fading afternoon sunshine.

India didn't say another word until they pulled into Kembleford station. When the train stopped, she took her suitcase and bags, forced a polite smile for the businessman and slid the door open, stepping out into the narrow passage. The little man stood, still looking shocked, and Sullivan followed her out, hands in his pockets and struggling to regain his composure. On the platform, India waited for him, her blue eyes violet with anger, and followed him out to the car. She got in on her own, and he climbed in, starting up the engine.

"I'm not sure that you're even _human_!" she hissed, still refusing to look at him.

He rested his elbow against the door glass, rubbing his temples and drove her home without saying another word.

* * *

A policeman answered the door and had no objection to letting him in, and so Father Brown examined the ruined plaster in the library. He noted that the two burglars had apparently not done a lot of pulling on the broken plaster, but had just slammed away at it with the two sledgehammers. Even more, they hadn't exactly attacked just one area of the wall, as though they knew something would be found in one specific place. Instead, they had just gone at the wall willy-nilly, in no pattern whatsoever. Whatever plaster had fallen had done so as the sledgehammers had pulled back for another hit, while the rest was either crushed into the bricks or had crumbled into the space between. Holes of varying sizes had been made in the plaster from beside the fireplace all the way to the curio cabinet built into the corner.

Obviously, the two men had known the Princess was out for the evening and had probably broken into the house shortly after dark. However, they had not taken much effort to conceal their presence in the house, as they had shone flashlights in the room. The noise they had made would have alerted anyone in the house, but as yet the Princess had not hired any servants, so there had been no one inside at all—thank goodness for neighbors, then, to have raised the alarm. Had they not, the burglars might have done even more damage.

But why? Why not go after every room in the house? Why not steal everything not nailed down?

He looked around. There were still boxes left to unpack, stacked in a corner. Only a few books lined the built-in shelves, and they were mainly hardback novels, a dictionary, a very nice and obviously well-read Bible and even some commentaries that Brown found fascinating (particularly a two-volume set of _Johnson's Commentary of the Old and New Testaments_ ) but did not touch. There was a silver statuette of a racehorse on a little sideboard, and he peered at it, smiling at the name of the horse: Battleship—America's own tough little Aintree Grand National winner of 1938. No curios were in the cabinets yet, save a small hand-carved plaque showing a coat of arms, black and yellow, in relief, and under it was the name 'Keeler', with the family motto of _Vos can non magis quam Dei_. Brown pondered a moment, and raised his eyebrows. It translated to 'You cannot outgive God', and there was certainly no truer phrase than that.

A blotter, some postage stamps, a waxing candle and seal (of the von Altburg family coat of arms) were set neatly in the rolltop, along with a few outgoing cheques, written in the Princess's elegant hand. Among the papers were bills, an unfinished letter to a friend in Baltimore, and a copy of… he peered down and grinned, liking the Princess even more: _Blood-Horse_ , America's premier journal of Thoroughbred racing and breeding, and it was open to an article about 1954's Horse of the Year, Native Dancer. He used his pen to move the magazine aside, and he saw ticket stubs and even a few betting slips and programmes from Saratoga, Belmont Park, Churchill Downs and Pimlico, aside from Ascot and Newmarket.

So she was a racing fan, God bless her!

He searched around the room, not touching anything but peering at the handsome secretary next, admiring it a great deal—it was magnificent, with fine detailing and expert carving. No papers on the desktop had been disturbed. A cheque book was sitting on the desktop, with the Princess's account number on display, but it, too, had not been touched. Using his own lock-picking file, he gingerly opened a drawer and saw a stack of American dollars. He closed the drawer and put his kit back into his pocket when he heard the front door opening.

He stepped out into the elegant foyer and stood still. India entered first, looking as lovely as ever but it was obvious she had a terrible headache and was quite upset by something besides just the break-in. Inspector Sullivan followed, his expression guarded at first, then annoyed when he saw the priest.

"Let me guess, Father. You've sussed out who did this."

"Actually, no. It's quite bewildering."

India managed a polite greeting for Father Brown and went into the library. Sullivan followed her, and Father Brown stood in the doorway, watching them both carefully, becoming increasingly concerned. She looked terribly strained, and her eyes were violet, instead of their usual sweet blue, and Sullivan looked shell-shocked, and there was hand-print shaped red mark on his cheek.

The detective took out his notepad and cleared his throat. "Is anything missing?" he asked India.

She was looking around the room, clearly distressed. "I… no. No, there's nothing in here to steal." She spotted her chequebook and looked through it, then opened the drawer and checked the stack of bills. "The only valuable thing in here is this old secretary—it's almost priceless. Oh, and those chairs… they're from the plantation my great-grandmother's family owned in Georgia. All ten of them are still here, and I should have put them in the dining room." She looked at Sullivan, then at Father Brown. "I would find it hard to believe that any common burglar would be up on antique American plantation chairs, and it would be hard to get a New England-made Chippendale secretary out of any house, during the night, without the neighbors noticing. It took six big men to get it in here to begin with, and they entertained everyone just by trying to park the delivery truck… er… lorry."

"And the neighbors did notice. They called about seeing flashlights," Sullivan said, rubbing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. "And God knows they still had plenty of time to go through the whole house and snatch up anything they wanted. But instead, they broke down the plaster in this wall, which would still only have opened out into the loggia on the other side."

"Quite puzzling," Father Brown said, earning a sharp look from Sullivan. The man was clearly in a bad temper, and Brown suspected asking him about it might result in a good bit of mayhem. He looked at India again, noting that her eyes were red-rimmed and she seemed vaguely… ill. He ducked out of the room and gestured to Sullivan. The detective, studying the ruined plaster wall, put his notepad away and went out into the foyer again, suddenly pulling his hat off and setting it on the exquisite mahogany carving of Cupid and Psyche that topped the handrail fitting at the foot of the stairs

"Yes?"

"Is the Princess all right? She looks a little… erm …under the weather."

"She has a hangover."

"Oh. Dear."

"That would sum it up."

"She was… in London last night?"

"Yes. She was with the Earl of Edgefield at the Savoy. Any more questions, Father?"

"Oh, I see, I'm… wait, _she was with the Earl of Edgefield_?"

"Yes."

"That is… "

"Father Brown, am I to assume Lady Felicia and Mrs. McCarthy are on their way?" India asked from the library door. Sullivan turned, grabbed his hat and went back outside, and the young woman clasped her hands neatly at her waist, the picture of calm, but Brown could tell she was extremely upset.

"Yes. They are. Are you all right, ma'am? You seem very… "

"Upset. Yes. Well, someone broke into my home. I've only been in it… what, three days? Must be a new record. I'm just glad my babies are at their uncle's—this would upset them so much." She seemed to be having trouble stringing her words together.

"I suppose so. But… um… are you feeling well?"

"Oh, I'm just _peachy_ , sir. Excuse me, but I think I need to lie down… I have a terrible headache."

"Of course. Yes, that's a good idea. You look like you need some rest, ma'am. Lady Felicia and Mrs. McCarthy are on their way over, and I will have Mrs. McCarthy bring up some tea, if you'd like."

She looked over Father Brown's shoulder at Inspector Sullivan, who had come back inside, and for a moment their gazes locked. Finally, she lifted her chin and nodded politely to the priest. "Yes, thank, sir. I appreciate your _kindness_ and _courtesy_." She looked at Sullivan again, who turned away to look out the front door. She managed to smile at Brown, but it did not touch her eyes. She went upstairs and quietly closed her bedroom door.

"I understand her children are staying with her brother at Errington Castle." Father Brown said, studying Sullivan carefully and seeing widening cracks in the man's ice when he turned around again. At Sullivan's curt nod, Brown stepped a little closer. "Are you all right?"

"Why are you asking me that?" Sullivan snapped.

"Because you look rather… shaken."

"Neither shaken nor stirred, thank you." Sullivan put his hat back on and stalked out of the house, slamming the door behind him. He almost collided with Lady Felicia and Mrs. McCarthy. "Oh, good, the hens are here. She's upstairs, nursing a hangover. Good day to you both." He climbed into his car and started the engine. "When she is ready, she can come to the station to give a statement to Sergeant Goodfellow after she assesses the house for any further damage or missing items. I'm going home." He slammed the door shut, and Father Brown heard him say "To dive into a bottle of whisky" and drove away.

* * *

Mrs. McCarthy knocked on the door, and India called for her to come in. The Irishwoman stepped carefully into the room, which was as yet undecorated save the bed, a chest of drawers, a vanity and an armoire. Mrs. McCarthy was carrying a tray containing a teapot, cups, sugar bowl and creamer, and she set it on the vanity.

India was lying on the bed, curled up in a ball and hugging a pillow. She was staring out the window, and Mrs. McCarthy had not seen a sadder sight in her life.

"Poor little thing. Have a touch of tea, sweetheart, and you'll feel a bit better."

"Yes. Tea. Cures all, doesn't it, from sniffles to severed limb. I'm hungover," India said, sounding disconsolate. "My head is killing me."

"Oh. Well." Mrs. McCarthy sighed and sat down on the bed, knowing the poor creature was as miserable as a body could be.

"What's wrong with me?" India asked, her voice trembling. "There has to be something wrong with me. Something… repulsive, right? Is it my accent, or the fact that I married a German, or… there has to be some reason… " She wiped tears from her eyes. "He treats me like Typhoid Mary and I just… and now he thinks I... but I didn't! I know I didn't! I was as pissed as a newt, yes, but I didn't!"

"Now you listen here," Mrs. McCarthy said. "There's nothin' wrong you at all. It's that Inspector Sullivan who has all the problems, and there's the truth. He's hardly well known for being warm and friendly, for all his dashing good looks, and if he's rejected you, well then he can wallow in his own misery and deserve it, too, and will regret it in the end. You're young and as pretty as a rose—soon you'll be squired around by the handsomest young men in Gloucestershire and moving on with your life. Mark my words—you'll be over him before the New Year."

India sniffled, shook her head, and let Mrs. McCarthy pour her a cup of tea. She drank gratefully, holding the cup with both hands, like a child, and took the ribbon out of her hair.

"Oh, God, I didn't even brush my hair," she said, noting it was tangled and a mess of unruly curls.

The older woman fluffed her pillows and took the empty cup away. "Never mind about that. Now, you lie down here and get a bit of sleep. I'll prepare some dinner for you and will bring it up to you later."

Oh, dear God, India thought as she lay down again, clutching the pillow. Don't let it be Yorkshire Pudding. That will kill me long before a broken heart will.

* * *

"Fingerprints didn't bring up anything, sir," Goodfellow said, handing the file to Sullivan, who had arrived at the station Tuesday morning looking rather grey and very, very tired, and he had a very interesting handprint on his cheek that no one dared mention. "We're sending them on to London. We're sure that'll bring up a match."

Sullivan nodded, refusing to show that every sound in the room was amplified to immense, agonizing levels. He had consumed half a bottle of whisky last night, ate a box of chocolate biscuits and fell asleep in his chair again. He was stiff, sore and his temper was fraying at both ends, but his head hurt too much to start yelling at anyone, as that would have put him in hospital for sure.

He rubbed his face. "Has the princess come by yet with any information on stolen items?"

"Not yet, sir, but it's early."

Sullivan nodded vaguely and exhaled, rubbing his stinging eyes. "I'm going out for… er… some breakfast," he finally said, standing up and watching the world spin for a moment before regaining his wits.

"Yes, sir." Goodfellow watched his boss leave, noting that he wasn't exactly steady on his feet. He shook his head and went to consult with Wells about the Ridgley dognapping.

* * *

Mrs. McCarthy was searching through India's cabinets and the iceboxes, amazed at the variety of American items present and the lack of British-made things. "Where is the Bovril?" she asked Father Brown, who only shrugged. "Oh well. I'm sure I can do something with this roast… I'll put some water on to boil."

They had all come back to Applecross before lunchtime, to check on the princess and do a bit more on-site pondering. Plus, both women were determined to help India do a bit of unpacking, and Lady Felicia was very keen to see what sort of taste India had. Father Brown paced through the first floor of the house again, and went out into the loggia, peering around and noting that someone had stuffed some cloth into the tiny hole the burglar/vandals had made in the bricks, to seal it from cold air. He went out on to the terrace from the dining room and looked around the fields, noting the lines of trees forming the property boundaries, and came back into the house as puzzled as before. It would take a long time to search through the entire property, and it was so bitterly cold. Someone young, with a strong constitution, would be needed for that job. The police could only do so much, and they had plenty of other work to do, bless them...

India appeared in the doorway just as Brown came back in. "I need to cook." She looked fairly well refreshed, and her cheeks were rosy. She had her hair back in a simple ponytail, and she was wearing a simple white blouse and smashing hot pink trousers.

"Now, ma'am, you hardly look to be in any condition… " Mrs. McCarthy said.

"Cooking will make me feel better. Please, sit down, Mrs. McCarthy. You're in my home, anyway. I can't let you work for me."

Father Brown and Lady Felicia both looked very eager as India examined the roast. "Hm. This would be better for Sunday dinner. I think I'll fry up some catfish. Have y'all ever had that?"

"Catfish? What on earth… " Mrs. McCarthy said, looking bewildered.

"Mrs. McCarthy, catfish is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy." She got packages of corn flour and cornmeal out of the pantry, along with a tiny jar of something called 'McIlhenny Tabasco Sauce', flour, salt, black and red pepper and garlic powder, and a bottle of peanut oil. She went to the rack over the center island and selected a large frying skillet, turned on the burner, and got a bottle of buttermilk out of the refrigerator. A bit of rattling about in the lower cabinets yielded two medium-sized mixing bowls, and India arranged everything neatly on the countertop by the burners. By that time, everyone had sat down to watch a true artist at work.

* * *

"Oh dear God… "

Father Brown made the Sign of the Cross and closed his eyes, having never eaten fish like this before. It was beyond delicious plain, but when India produced little bottles of lemon juice and squirted some on his fillets, he tasted the fish and sighed happily—the fish had a wonderfully mild flavor, unlike the usual haddock of any fish'n'chips shop, and had been fried in a glorious cornmeal and buttermilk batter. No vinegar was added, and she included no chips (or French fries, as she called them) but instead made hushpuppies and cole slaw.

He dipped a golden, slightly crusty hushpuppy into his puddle of ketchup and popped the little ball of fried cornbread into his mouth, lost in the utter wonder of it. He was going to have to go to America one day, to try all the regional cuisines, though he knew he would spend most of his time eating his way across the South.

Warm pinto beans completed the meal, and they were utterly magnificent—they were just slightly spicy, but India claimed they weren't quite right and had actually _apologized_ for them as they all gaped at her in stupefied wonder.

By that time, India had pulled a lemon meringue pie out of the oven and put it on the table. Lady Felicia eagerly cut into it and divided out slices for everyone. Mrs. McCarthy, in a dreamlike state, took a bite, sighed, and put her fork down. The phone rang, and India went into the lounge to answer.

Mrs. McCarthy shook herself out of her trance and leaned forward. "She's a witch, I tell you! A… a food witch!"

"I don't care," Father Brown said, eating another hushpuppy before taking another bite of delicious, slightly sweet cole slaw.

He took a piece of pie, ate a bite, and looked like he might begin to weep. "And I daresay she's not a witch. More like the angel of cooking. An artist. A… a Titian of cuisine. A Da Vinci of catfish. A Rembrandt of roasted beef and potatoes. A… a Michaelangelo of meringue... this lemon pie is beyond description! It's sweet and tastes like lemons, but it's not bitter! How does she do that?!"

Lady Felicia, standing at the kitchen aisle, chewing on pie with her eyes closed, sighed happily and her expression rapturous.

"Oh, God… if this pie was a man, I'd get naked and make love to him."

"Lady Felicia!" Mrs. McCarthy said, but she couldn't keep from eating her pie too and moaned as though she were experiencing religious ecstasy. "Oh, dear God… she is a witch, I say! A witch! Give me another piece! She must put a magic potion in her food... we'll all be like the Lotus Eaters!"

"No! It's mine!" Felicia said, and Father Brown wondered if he might have to break up a fight.

India came back in. "My brothers are on their way out from London. I had totally forgotten they were coming… I'm sure they'll have plenty to say about the mess in the library."

Her three dazed guests stared at her, unable to speak through their collective haze of catfish and lemon pie.

"I suppose it's good they'll be here. I'll have protection, in case the burglars come back and… are y'all okay?" she asked, brow furrowing. "You all look… good heavens, you're not getting sick are you? I know this isn't something you're used to… those pinto beans just wouldn't come out right."

"Sick? Good Lord, no." Mrs. McCarthy managed, swallowing. "Your Highness, I wonder if you would be interested in joining the Women's Institute in Kembleford. I would be… be very happy to sponsor your membership."

"Is that like the Junior League?" India asked, looking a little puzzled.

"Um… I'm not sure, but you'd have no trouble getting in. We have a fair every year, and… we have competitions at… at baking."

"Oh. Well, that would be very nice, Mrs. McCarthy, though I can't see myself winning anything. Particularly if my baking goes up against your strawberry scones."

Lady Felicia dug back into the pie, and growled at Mrs. McCarthy when she moved closer.

"When will your brothers be here?" Father Brown asked, reluctantly pushing his plate away. If he ate any more, he would explode. It would be a happy explosion, but he had to be reasonable.

"Um… in an hour or so. Their names are Duncan and Lachlan. They're both nice young men, though they can be a bit rowdy. I'll need to fry up some more catfish, because if they smell it and see I didn't make them any, I'll have an insurrection on my hands." She went to the refrigerator and got more fillets out. "Mrs. McCarthy, I'll be happy to show you how to make lemon meringue pie, if you like. It's so easy, even I was able to get it right after a few tries." She smiled, looking much less stressed, about which Father Brown was very relieved, amused at how artfully she could make Mrs. McCarthy maintain her sense of culinary superiority, but he was still concerned about her situation. Not only had her home been invaded and damaged, but the matter of Inspector Sullivan still had yet to be resolved.

"Oh… thank you, ma'am. I'm always happy to learn new things." She glared at Lady Felicia, who was tucking into another piece of lemon meringue pie.

* * *

 **September 1945**

 _The flat was so small that it was almost impossible for it to become untidy, but Sullivan still went through it carefully, making sure all was squared away. The dishes (one coffee cup, one teacup and saucer, two plates, two glasses, two bowls and a set of cutlery) were cleaned and put away. He saw to it that his hair was neat and he shaved carefully, knowing India wasn't fond of stubble, much less beards._

 _He opened the little box and studied the tiny ring, with its even tinier diamond setting, and snapped it shut again. He suspected that a duke's daughter would expect a larger stone, but then again India cared little for such things, preferring to wear that black and silver enameled dragon necklace and that old silver bracelet. She had told him that the bracelet was made from the bullets her great-great-grandmother had used to kill a Yankee soldier who had broken into her home in Georgia and attempted to rape her._

 _All he could do now was wait. He had taken the day off, to give himself time to figure out what exactly he should say and how to say it. God knew he was not good at expressing his emotions very well, but he knew how he felt about her. Enough, even, to be tempted to contact his father and tell him of his plans, but his anger towards the man still kept him from picking up the telephone and calling. So far, he had told no one. If she accepted, he would have to tell his superiors and finally insist that he meet her parents. So far, she had put him off on that issue, and he understood why, but it was making him uneasy now._

 _He settled in his chair, stretching his legs out and trying to tamp down his nervousness. She had never been to his flat before, but he had been in her kitchen in Pimlico, while her parents were out, and had sampled some of her astounding cooking—one day, she had made him something called 'meat loaf' that had been the clincher on whether or not he wanted to marry this woman. She had all the right qualities, for sure, but to come home to not only her bright, sunny smile but also to sit down to eat such food would never be anything to think about. He would never head out to a pub after work again, either._

 _There was a knock at his door, and he stuffed the box in his pocket and opened the door, expecting India, though she was a bit early, and he froze._

 _An elegant woman in a light mauve dress, silver fox collar, pillbox hat and veil was standing there. He paused, uncertain, and wondered if she had come to the wrong place. Of course, considering how well-dressed she was, he couldn't imagine what business she would have with anyone in this part of town. "Can I help you?" he finally asked._

 _"Are you Constable Alexander Sullivan?"_

 _"Er… yes."_

 _"Might I come in? I need to discuss a matter of some import with you."_

 _"If you need to contact the police, I'm sure you… "_

 _"I'm not contacting the police. I'm contacting you."_

 _She had a slight Eastern European accent, but he couldn't quite place it. He stepped aside and she walked in, looking around the small flat, but what surprised him was that she didn't look down her nose at him or the flat. When he closed the door, she turned back and faced him. He swallowed and raised his eyebrows, totally at a loss._

 _"I understand you have been seeing my daughter. Lady India Collins."_

 _He drew in his breath, half expecting her to begin to belabor him with her purse. But instead, she only waited._

 _"Um… yes. I… "_

 _"I have made inquiries about your character, and thus far no one has ever said that you were anything but completely honourable in all your dealings, and that you are an exemplary police officer with a bright future ahead."_

 _"Oh. Well… thank you."_

 _"You are quite welcome. But as for my daughter… " She paused, looking around the room. "I'm sure you are aware that she is the daughter of the Duke of Errington, and is the scion of not only some of the finest families in Britain, but also of Hungary and the United States. My mother was related to Her Majesty Queen Mary, and she is descended from no less than four signers of the Declaration of Independence, four Governors of Virginia, and of George Washington's own aunt and of the Lee family."_

 _"Yes, she… "_

 _"She is accustomed to a certain way of life. By no means do I mean to imply that you would not do your utmost to provide a safe, comfortable life for her, but I believe we both are aware of the class distinctions that are still the rule in this country, however unfair they might often seem."_

 _Sullivan bristled slightly, but she raised her hand._

 _"I am not saying you are of unfit character, Mr. Sullivan."_

 _"Then what are you saying?" he finally asked tightly._

 _"My daughter is sixteen years old and far too young for… this… "she said, looking him up down. "Not that I can truly blame her for being attracted to you."_

 _He felt his heart drop from his chest and down to his feet. "Si—sixteen?" he asked, hoping he had misheard._

 _"Sixteen." The Duchess sighed and looked around. "May I sit?"_

 _He was too dumbfounded to answer, and she took a chair at the kitchen table. Despite being barely able to breathe, he managed to get to a chair and sat down opposite her._

 _"You can be very sure, Constable, that I took no pleasure whatsoever in having my daughter followed, nor do I relish the thought of separating two young people who are clearly very devoted to one another. The detective who followed you on your… outings with India reported that your behavior was utterly respectful… " She paused. "Well, as respectful as one could expect of a healthy young man and a pretty young… woman. Even then, I can do nothing but commend you for treating her properly."_

 _"Separating… " he said, barely able to regain control of his scattered emotions. All he could hear, in his head, was someone screaming "Sixteen years old!" over and over again, and when he closed his eyes he saw his father's cold, hard glare of disapproval._

 _The Duchess put her hands on the table. "If you feel for my daughter as I believe you do, then I think you would agree that she deserves only the very best possible degree of comfort. By that I mean a lifestyle and accommodations to which she is already accustomed, and an income that would provide her with the freedom she requires." She leveled her calm blue gaze at him, and his hands clenched into fists, his head still ringing and his heart breaking into a thousand pieces. The Duchess reached out and covered his hands with hers, expression kind rather than angry or condescending._

 _"I'm so sorry, Mr. Sullivan. But a mother must do what is best for her children, and regardless of the regard I do have for you, I cannot allow this… mésalliance to continue. She would take it far better from you, however, and it would be less damaging to her heart if she did not know I visited you. I suspect she is on her way here tonight?"_

 _He jerked his hands away from her and stood, his knees wobbly, and went to the sink. He splashed water on his face and stood, gripping the edge of the sink until his knuckles were white. The Duchess slowly stood up._

 _"I cannot tell you how sorry I am. Were this a different world, I would have no objections, save that I would insist on a chaperone to attend you until she turned eighteen, and then I would inform her father and he would, I'm certain, approve. He is, after all, an American by birth and outlook and would have no qualms whatsoever about… you."_

 _It took a long time, before he finally turned and faced her. "So I'm that bad for her, am I? Poor Irish East Ender without a pedigree… "_

 _"I never said that. Besides, the Sullivans were kings in Ireland, and you have the bearing of someone with a good dash of noble blood, though frankly I suspect it's more your... virile good looks that my daughter likes, over your venerable ancestors, and your good character to boot. But it isn't your pedigree that concerns me. You know in your heart of hearts that you could never enter her world, and she could never live comfortably in yours, and eventually you would begin to resent each other. You would end up in constant battle, and whatever children you might have would be scarred by those battles even more than yourselves. Would you want to bring up your babies in a house of strife?"_

 _He rubbed his face, the rightness of her statement making his chest hurt._

 _"But… I… I do… love her," he finally said.  
_

 _"I know you do. That's very obvious, and that indicates you have excellent taste. But in the past few years, we have learned that sometimes, love just isn't enough. Love did not prevent the war, it did not prevent millions from dying on the Continent and in Asia, and it did not heal the wounds of the Great War, either. In fact, the world has years to go before it can heal, and love likely won't be what is needed to bring that about, what with Stalin still breathing—his kind of poison will spread 'round the globe, and kill millions more."_

 _He collapsed back into the chair, and she studied him for several moments, expression sad and surprisingly compassionate._

 _"I'll go now. Please be aware that I am not unsympathetic, and I do not relish causing you pain. When I was a young girl, I fell in love with a… " She paused. "It is no matter now. He died in the Great War. But I know, to some degree, what you are feeling, and what India will feel. Be absolutely certain that I will see that whoever she marries will be of the very best type of character and she will never know a moment of unkindness from him or he'll have her father and brothers to answer to, as well as myself. In all other respects, I wish you all imaginable success and happiness."_

 _She exhaled, bowed her head ever so slightly, and left as Sullivan's world came crashing down around him._

* * *

Sullivan woke with a gasp of pain, and struggled to his feet. He had gone home for breakfast, eaten a fried egg and some toast and fell asleep, too exhausted and hung over to care. It was three in the afternoon now, and he didn't feel like eating. He didn't feel like doing anything. Instead, he staggered into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror, seeing a haggard thirty-five-year old man with no prospects of any kind of life. He had a career, and was considered a rising star in the field of criminal investigation, but that was nothing. He had no one to talk to, no one to sleep next to, and no one he could truly trust with his troubles.

Father Brown would say that he might consider turning to God, but Sullivan had been angry at God since childhood. His father had played at piety in church, but at home he had been a cruel, unfeeling martinet. His mother had died of what they called 'childbed fever' just days after giving birth to him, and by all accounts she had been a loving, devout woman. Sullivan knew enough about psychology to know that one's first notion of God, for better or worse, came from their relationship with their father—it was no wonder, then, that he balked at talking to his Creator, when his earthly creator had been less than loving. Of course, what was odd that in the past few years, his anger at God had faded a good bit, and though he didn't like admitting it, that had to do with Father Brown's patient, non-judgemental behavior towards him. Sullivan often regretted some of the things he said to the priest, but his own arrogance tripped him up. He just wasn't sure how to go about apologizing.

His father had 'toughened' his only son, berating him for any deviation from perfection, and while he was never physically abusive, the damage had been done just the same. He had derided his son's talent for drawing and other artistic skills, and pushed him into playing rugby and cricket. Sullivan hated rugby, but did well at it, as it was a good means of working out his anger, and he excelled at cricket but was damned if he could explain the blasted game to anyone sober or sane.

"Run-away at fifteen," he told his empty whisky bottle. "Army at seventeen. Shot in the knee at nineteen. A year learning to walk again. Metropolitan Police at twenty-one. Commendations galore by twenty-three. A wreck at twenty-four, and constantly angry through it all." He opened his tiny refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of beer. He sat down in his chair again, turned on the wireless to Beethoven's _Ode to Joy_ and made a mock toast to himself. "Yes, you've really made it, Sullivan, my boy."

* * *

India's brothers arrived after lunch, and Father Brown was impressed with them both. They were charming, easy-going, and friendly, and soon had everyone at the table laughing with their stories. India served them catfish, which they praised to the skies, and after eating they studied the ruined wall in the library, and they were both baffled.

"Some couple of thieves," Duncan said. "What could have been hidden in this wall? All I see is old newspapers they used as insultation." He picked one up. "Huh. That poor Chamberlain chap sure got duped, didn't he?"

"Exactly," Father Brown said, nodding. Lord Duncan and Lord Lachlan Collins were both tall, well-muscled and had the same arresting blue eyes as India, and they were both concerned for their sister's safety. "That is, they didn't seem to be looking for anything in particular. The damage seems to have been… deliberately random."

"Well, I think a proper tour of this property is in order, Dunk," Lachlan said. "And we should call in the head of the local constabulary, too, to make sure we don't step on any toes. I'd hate to get thrown into a local gaol for butting into their business."

Father Brown's mouth quirked. "Yes. Well, I admit he does get somewhat… testy about that."

* * *

When Inspector Sullivan arrived back at Applecross, he didn't look quite right to Father Brown, but he held his tongue. The man had clearly had to drag himself out of bed, and he looked a little bleary-eyed and exhausted, and to Brown's thinking, that was a perfect time to attack—when his defenses were low.

India barely said a word to him and went right into the kitchen as soon as she made introductions. Lady Felicia, in a catfish and lemon pie haze, managed to stagger out as India went in. "Oh, Inspector Sullivan. So nice to see you again. Bitten any heads off today?"

"Day's still young," he answered shortly. He sniffed the air and looked around. "Catfish?" Everyone stared at him, and he looked a little embarrassed. "Erm… anyway, I take it you two are here to see that the Princess remains safe, and to add your two cents to the investigation?"

The Collins brothers looked Sullivan up and down, considering him carefully. Finally, Lord Duncan spoke up. "We're going to take a tour around the estate, on horseback. Just to check things out, if you don't mind. A pair of fresh eyes can sometimes pick up on something, and that's no knock against you or your men, Inspector. Care to join us?"

Sullivan shook his head.

"We promise to report anything we see that looks out of place." Duncan said, and turned as India came into the room, looking subdued and not looking at Sullivan at all. "Indigo, you've brought old Flash in the Pan and Doc Bumper out here, right?"

"Yes. All the way from Texas. They still don't know what to make of all that white stuff on the ground, but they do need some exercise. Be careful with Flash, though-he's not a colt any more, even if he still thinks he can outrun Doc Bumper."

"Very good." Duncan looked between his sister and Sullivan, brow furrowing. "You two know each other?"

"Doc Bumper?" Sullivan asked.

"Er… yeah. Probably the first Quarter Horse anybody's seen in these parts. Damned good cow horse—the best in all of central Texas. His sire was named Doc, and his dam was named Bumpy, so… Doc Bumper. We always go for logic, don't we Indigo," Lachlan said, winking at his sister, who only managed a tight little smile in reply.

"I see." Sullivan took his hat off and settled it on the carving of Cupid and Psyche.

"So you two are… acquainted?" Lachlan asked. He was the younger of the two brothers, and built like a bull, though without an ounce of extra fat on him. Duncan was leaner and looked deceptively lazy, but there was a cool, almost calculating look in his eye that indicated he was as canny and quick on his feet as any cow pony.

"Somewhat," Sullivan answered shortly. India wouldn't look at him. The brothers studied them both, expressions quizzical, but they didn't press the issue. They put on warm wool-lined leather coats, searched through the luggage for their leather boots, and went out into the cold afternoon, heading for the stables.

"Well, ma'am, I think we should all be going," Father Brown said suddenly. Lady Felicia raised her eyebrows but immediately went in search of her coat and purse. Mrs. McCarthy looked a little concerned, but she did not argue and gathered up her belongings (including a hand-written recipe for lemon meringue pie) and scuttled out onto the front portico.

"Inspector Sullivan," Father Brown said, glancing at the kitchen door. "You need to cast aside your pride and talk to her. Now."

The younger man flinched slightly. "We have nothing to talk about."

"Good Lord, sometimes I just want to beat you about the head with my brolly!" Brown said, getting irritated. "Stop being an arrogant prat and go talk to her! A woman like that comes along only once in a hundred years and you're just going to throw it all away because of your pride? Remember that pride goeth before a fall, Inspector, and you have _already_ **fallen**!" The priest put on his hat, straightened the chain hanging from his neck and stalked out the front door. Lady Felicia was already in the Rolls, having to do the driving as Sid was at home nursing a broken nose. He looked up at Sullivan, who was standing in the doorway, wide-eyed, and gave him a stern look and a smile before getting in the car and riding away.


	8. Chapter 8

A filler chapter, with some useful clues. I think.

* * *

India was washing dishes, and had finally gotten to the skillet and began scouring it carefully with a ball of tin foil. She didn't mind washing up, or most housework in fact, because it gave her a chance to think and plan. Even when living in the von Altburg family's huge (and rather drafty) castle in Germany, she had done all the washing up, and often joined the servants in keeping the 15th century _Schloss_ neat and in good shape, and since they were German, they had certainly appreciated her notions of cleanliness. It had been a hard slog sometimes, but it was always worth it to have a comfortable, peaceful and orderly home.

She finished up, dried her hands and applied some lotion, then turned and almost screamed when she saw Sullivan standing there, leaning against the kitchen island.

"I have nothing to say to you," she said, putting the bottle of lotion down.

"I have things I need to say to you," he said.

"Well, as my grandfather often said, the dogs may bark but the herd keeps moving. So yap away, you heartless bastard."

"Fair enough. It's not like I've never heard that before," he said, and that took some of the air out of her sails. She leaned against the counter, waiting.

"Well, speak," she finally said.

"We seem to be constantly misunderstanding each other, and some of the air needs to be cleared."

"Yip, yip, yip," she mocked.

That actually seemed to amuse him, and India almost picked up the skillet to bean him. But she clenched her fists and glared at him instead.

"Still hung over?"

"I am not."

"I am. Did a spot of drinking last night. Usually that makes things very blurry for me, but instead, it made things rather clear, and then I dreamed about your mother visiting me that day. Needless to say, my head's killing me and I realized that I needed to come clean, so to speak. Well, actually, it was Father Brown threatening me with bodily harm by way of his umbrella that gave me the impetus, and don't tell him I said this… but as usual, he was right."

"Good! I'm glad you have a hangover, and I wish he had smacked you around with his umbrella! It would be no less than what you deserve!" she said hotly.

"Right. Exactly. Machines don't tend to feel much, so a headache is actually a good thing, right? Proves that maybe I am human, and I probably could have used a few whacks with an umbrella."

She chewed on her lower lip, caught his gaze and felt her cheeks warming. "I suppose so."

"I was very rude to you on the train, India, and I'm sorry for that. But even this machine was a little surprised to find you in a hotel room with… a man. Any man."

"I can't imagine why that would matter to you!" she snapped, regaining some of her composure.

"Because, as I recall, you bought me, and as such, I still belong to you. Bringing someone else into the equation is clearly a violation of the rules."

"What, I'm to consult with you on such matters because I purchased you at some auction? And what rules? Nobody gave me any rules!"

"They hardly need spelling out, India. There are rules. You plunked down fifty pounds for me, and you must expect consequences. That's not unreasonable."

"There's nothing reasonable about that" she raged at him. "I own _you_ , not the other way 'round!"

The kitchen door banged open suddenly, and Lachlan and Duncan strode in, snow melting in their hair and looking ruddy from the bitter cold. The two young men paused when they saw their sister and Sullivan standing so close, and Duncan cleared his throat.

"Inspector Sullivan, I hope you're not trying to intimidate our sister."

Sullivan actually laughed—the first time India had seen him laugh since the day she had arrived in Kembleford. "I can honestly say that I doubt a charging elephant could intimidate your sister, and thank you, Your Highness, for clarifying the issue so succinctly—I'm happy to know that my instincts are correct."

"Wait… what do you mean? Why won't you talk to me?" she fumed. "You're driving me crazy!"

"This isn't the time, that's why, but I know you're intelligent enough to figure it out on your own." He looked at her brothers. "Did you see anything of interest on the estate grounds?"

"Yep," Duncan said, brow still furrowed. "We rode along the northwest borders, and there's quite a few rock cairns along the fenceline on the western side, near that little road, and we found this… " He dug in his pocket and extracted a small patch of what looked like rather expensive carpeting. Sullivan took it and examined it, turning it over and holding up to the light.

"This doesn't match anything in the house, does it?" he asked India.

Struggling to pull herself together, India could only peer briefly at the cloth and finally shake her head. "It looks like Aubusson… high quality, and made of silk."

"And it was in fresh snow?" Sullivan asked.

"It was actually snagged on a tree branch near the road-the one that that divides this place from the next estate over."

"Let's go have a look then," Sullivan said. The brothers paused, but Sullivan was already heading out the door. India sighed and got her coat, and now all three men stared at her, the brothers seeming to have some misgivings.

"What? I can handle a little cold," she said. "You put the horses away?"

"Of course. Cooled out and bedded down proper-like," Lachlan said. "It is pretty cold out there, Indy, and you always ended up getting sick when you went out in stuff like this—it's blowin' to beat the band and damned if it didn't nearly knock us both over."

"I'm not bothered," she said, pulling her warm leather, wool-lined coat on. Sullivan led them out onto the terrace, and he and India waited while Duncan and Lachlan threw salt on the steps. India pulled warm gloves on and started down, and was startled when Sullivan took her hand and saw that she made it down safely. The Collins brothers looked at each other, eyebrows lifted, but said nothing.

The four of them trudged through the deep snow, not talking, until they reached the place where the brothers had found the scrap of carpeting. They were near a low stone wall, and on the other side was a short drop to a dirt road, and a few medium-sized rock cairns were lined up, about ten feet apart, along the wall and all the way to the treeline to the north. Sullivan studied the tree, noting that some branches had been broken off, and some rocks on the wall had been knocked down. He walked around the pile of rocks nearest the tree and used his boot to push snow away from the bottom of the pile, then looked up. "There are wooden planks under here."

"Wood?" Lachlan went around and peered at the area Sullivan had brushed away. "Well, I'll be dogged. Looks like fresh-cut wood, too—not Celtic remains, that's for sure." He brushed his finger across the end of one of the wide, thick planks. "See? You can see sawmarks. If they'd been here for long, they would be pretty weathered."

Sullivan went around the cairn, scraping more snow away, and soon found that several planks of wood were under the stack of rocks. "No one would have noticed this, out here," he pointed out, a little breathless from the exertion and the biting cold. "Where exactly did you find this piece of cloth?"

Duncan pointed to a tree leaning right into the rock wall, and they all noted that several lower branches had been pushed aside or broken, apparently from someone hauling something over the low wall from the little road below. Sullivan clambered over the wall, slid down with remarkable elegance, and scraped snow away, all the way up from the edge of the road to the bottom of the wall. "Tyre marks—very deep, but it's impossible to tell how old. But since the wood under the cairn was apparently cut very recently, then this was placed here in the past few weeks at best." He looked at the wall. "The displaced rocks were all knocked inside the property, not down into the road."

"So someone brought a truck out here, hauled something over this wall, buried it, covered it with a bunch of boards and then settled a bunch of rocks over it?" Lachlan asked. "It had better be one hell of a horde, but I'll give 'em high marks for clever concealment. I'd've never noticed it at all, particularly with the snow—I only saw that piece of carpeting because it was red. A good wind and it would have blown away. You ride the range a lot, like we do, we notice anything that doesn't look right. And that little piece of carpet sure didn't belong in a tree."

"Clever or not, they probably got stuck in the mud," Sullivan muttered. "They had to have done this before you bought the property, India, and I understand it was unoccupied for almost three years, and the neighbors across the road just moved into that house maybe four weeks ago." The Collins brothers helped him back up over the wall, and he brushed snow off himself, then went back to the cairn and kicked irritably at the edge of the planks. "Too cold to haul them all off now, and there's ice all over them." He attempted to move one of the rocks, but it was stuck, frozen solid against the others. "They'll be a bitch to move."

"So wait 'til spring thaw?" India asked. She had lost the feeling in her feet and fingers and desperately wanted some nice hot tea and an even hotter bath.

"No. Tomorrow we'll hire some workers and have them do it." He took off his gloves and blew on his fingers. "What's most bizarre, of course, is that the vandals that broke into your house were in a locked room, and there no sign of forced entry. Makes you wonder what else is hidden about this place—trap doors, secret passages… " He looked up at the sky. "I'd appreciate the three of you keeping that on the QT, of course. It could be significant."

"More snow is expected tomorrow," India said, remembering that she had heard the weather on the wireless this morning. "At least another foot."

"Damn." Sullivan removed his hat and looked up at the pearl-grey sky. "Right. Let's get back inside before India pitches over in the snow."

"I'm fine," she said, even though she wasn't sure she could walk now. But she wasn't about to admit defeat, and forced herself to move, pretending that she wasn't shivering and that her teeth weren't chattering. She was relieved to finally get back inside, and her brothers went to put away all the coats. India sat down at the table, removing her gloves and shivering, and she was surprised to see Sullivan putting the tea kettle on.

"You need to eat. I'm guessing you did a lot of cooking today and forgot to sample anything yourself." He leaned back against the counter, ankles crossed, coat off and sleeves already rolled up, waiting for the kettle to start screaming. "In fact, I don't recall you being much on eating a lot. Considering what an excellent cook you are, I suspect that's a good thing—you'd never stop. I know I had a hard time pushing my plate away whenever you fed me."

"I… " She tried to remember. "I think I ate some breakfast."

He shook his head. "Well, you know I'm no gourmet chef, but I suppose I can whip up some eggs and toast, besides tea, and then you really should go to bed."

"I'm not tired," she said, and to prove it she yawned.

"Just oxygen-deprived?" he asked with a little smirk.

"It's only… five o'clock." She yawned again.

"That's true, but it'll be dark in another hour and you're almost frozen stiff." He said nothing more for a while, getting eggs and milk from the refrigerator. She watched him as he made scrambled eggs and toasted some bread on her griddle, and she wordlessly pointed out where she kept her coffee and tea cups. He poured her a cup, and set aside cups for her brothers and himself.

"I didn't know you could cook," she said, as he placed the plate in front of her. She tucked into the meal and was even more surprised to find that it was quite good. The eggs were fluffy and just buttery enough without being greasy, and the grilled toast was lovely—light-golden brown and not at all burned around the edges.

"When you live alone, you either learn to cook or go broke eating out." He sat down opposite her and exhaled, looking quite tired. "Not that I'll ever have anywhere near your skill, and I'm British, so… I can only hope to avoid killing anyone I cook for. Plus I remember the pointers you gave me."

She studied him carefully, noting that he had filled out a little since she had known him in London. He was still lean and fit as a racehorse, but age and maturity had made him more… solid. Not bulky by any means, but he wasn't boyish any more, save his rare smile. Frankly, she was glad for that, since at sixteen she had only just started developing her tastes in men, and they had changed very little: she still liked them strong and mature. David had stated, once, that girls of sixteen tended to go for young men whose balls hadn't dropped yet ("They aren't threatening to your or to Mother."), but as they aged they either went for grownup men who were reliable and treated women with respect, or they went for idiots who zoomed around on motorcycles and got into trouble with the law.

Considering she had fallen in love with Alexander Sullivan at age sixteen, that meant she had always preferred grown men over zitty-faced boys. Fritz had not been healthy, but his strength of will and character had helped him endure great hardships, and he had been mature—sixteen years her senior, in fact, and reliable and steady as a lady's hunting hack. Sullivan was strong and mature, for sure, but he would be a different kind of ride all together.

That unbidden thought made her hands shake and she dropped her fork. She was supposed to be still be angry at him, but now she couldn't even remember why.

"Are you all right?" he asked, and she struggled to regain her composure.

"You said something, earlier, about… about your instincts being correct."

"Did I?" he sat down, taking a sip of his tea. "Oh. Right. About your ownership status."

"Oh… "

"You know that I'm made almost entirely of ice and metal parts. But you purchased me, and I'm sure that even by then you were aware of the fact that I'm barely even human. You even stated as such yesterday."

India's cheeks flamed and she felt ashamed of herself. "I shouldn't have said that. I… "

"It's true, so why dispute it? For the past ten years, however, I've been paying rent… right on time, every day, so you really can't throw me out, and I still owe you a lot." He fingered the handle of his teacup for a moment. "I never let myself get close to any woman, though I've had a few… well, let's not go into that. _I have been faithful to thee, Cynara, in my fashion_." He took a sip of his tea as India stared at him, wide-eyed. "I'm no angel, and God knows you've seen my less-than-charming moments."

She heard thumping upstairs, and knew her brothers were settling into guest rooms. But otherwise, the room was still and silent.

"I'm no angel, either," she finally said. "And I've been faithful, too."

He looked at her, expression curious, his eyes more green than hazel, and he cleared his throat. "More tea?"

"No thank you."

He sat back in his seat. "You know I'm not good with words, India. Never have been."

"I don't know about that. You've always been quite eloquent."

That made him snicker a little. "Really? Maybe so, but only in my role as a copper, but when it comes to the things that matter, I'm a rank outsider. But I'll try and get this right… " He inhaled slowly. "As I was saying, very awkwardly, was that what you own… there's no view, and there's lots of space… "

"Bad news, Indigo," Duncan said, coming into the room, and Sullivan rose, picking up his teacup and taking it to the sink. He cleaned it methodically, rinsed it out and put it with the other dishes in the drying rack.

It wasn't the first and was probably not the last time India had wanted to kill her brother.

"What?" she snapped.

Duncan was taken aback for a moment, and cleared his throat uneasily, looking at the still and silent form of Inspector Sullivan still standing at the sink, his back to them and gripping the edge so hard his knuckles were white.

"A massive storm is blowing in as we speak. The Beeb says it's best everyone stay put tonight and hope we can dig out tomorrow morning."

Her shoulders sagged. Why couldn't her brothers have stayed in London? She didn't give a damn about the ruined plaster in the wall in the library. She just wanted to be alone with Alexander, plying him with his favorite foods until he started talking. He was paying rent to her, and what she owned had no view but lots of space? What on earth did that mean?

"I see. Well, I'm assuming y'all have found rooms?"

"Yep. Lock's already snoring away. He won't move a muscle 'til dawn and why do I get the feeling I should sleep with one eye open tonight?"

She looked at Sullivan, who hadn't moved from his spot at the sink. She drew in her breath. "We'll have to see to Inspector Sullivan as well."

He wrenched his hands away from the sink. "I can drive home," he finally said, teeth clenched.

"Like hell you will," Duncan said, shaking his head. "I won't have a dead cop on my conscience. The snow's blowin' in like a frozen hurricane and getting' deeper by the second. If you get trapped in that mess, you're as dead as a doornail within a few hours. I'm gonna run a rope from the front porch pillars out to the stables and make sure the horses are locked in good and tight, and then we're gonna batten down the hatches, get out of some marshmallows, graham crackers and Hershey bars, 'cause we're campin' indoors tonight!"

* * *

Duncan woke Lachlan and made him come down and help with running the rope out to the stables, and after a few tense moments, Duncan returned looking like a walking snowman and assured India that her horses were all settled in nice and warm, as were the chickens and the barn cats.

"Barn cats? I don't have any barn cats."

"You do now," Duncan said, shrugging and shaking snow onto the marble floor in the front hall. "Counted three of 'em. C'mon, you gotta have cats in the stables at least. They keep the mice under control and can tell you which horses are the kindest."

Sullivan had taken a seat at the bottom of the stairs, drinking coffee now and looking weary. India sighed and went into the lounge, where her brothers soon joined her. Sullivan trailed in last, looking uneasy as always in these types of situations, and his expression turned to befuddlement as the Collins boys began making S'mores.

"What the hell is this?" he finally asked, staring at the 'sandwich' of graham crackers, melted Hershey's chocolate and marshmallows that Lachlan handed him.

"Just try it," India said.

"It's messy." It was indeed—chocolate was dripping on the (thankfully) bare floor and gooey marshmallow was oozing everywhere.

"So?" Duncan said. "Who cares? This is a snowstorm." He popped a S'more into his mouth and began chewing happily. "Hey, Lock, go get some bread—we'll roast a bit in the fire, and make grilled cheese sammiches. And do you have any popcorn, Indy?"

"Um… yes, in the pantry, and I'm not surprised to see that you two still eat like Coxey's Army."

That made both of them snicker. "Tomorrow, we'll go out and get you a tree—I saw a few nice ones down by the creek," Duncan said. "We'll string popcorn, and I know I saw a box of ornaments upstairs somewhere. I should call David and see how he's doin'." He got up from his place by the fire and grabbed the telephone. He sat down and was soon talking cheerfully to his oldest brother, telling about the break-in and that they were all fine so far.

India sat on a pillow in front of the fire, arms wrapped around her knees and wiggling her bare toes in the warmth, and Sullivan watched her eat a piece of chocolate. She closed her eyes, clearly relishing the sweet morsel, and he suddenly felt overheated, and it damned sure wasn't because of the fire. He stood, looked around the room and snatched a bottle of Coca-Cola from the sideboard, where several others had been set.

He wished he was a piece of chocolate.

Lachlan, asleep again by the fire, snuffled and mumbled the name 'Margarita'. India raised her eyebrows and looked at Sullivan, who exhaled and smacked the Coke bottle on the edge of a table, popping the metal cap right off and catching it in midair. Lachlan and Duncan both sat up, gasping at the sound, and stared at Sullivan.

"Now that there is a talent," Duncan said.

Sullivan drank his Coke in silence, unable to take his eyes off India as she ate her S'mores with obvious relish. Finally, plates and cups were cleared away, Duncan and Lachlan insisting on doing the washing up, and India and Sullivan were left alone in the lounge, the radio playing soft classical music. She heard brothers bickering in the kitchen, washing dishes and discussing the quality of British beef over American. She sighed and settled back against a chair.

"We only ever did this maybe once or twice a year, when I was a kid—make S'mores, I mean. Always when it was really cold."

"I admit, I have a hard time picturing Texas as ever getting cold."

She laughed softly. "It does. We even had snow sometimes, though rarely very much. Usually just a light dusting. I remember going out during a snowfall and seeing a herd of deer just standing in a tight clutch in the field, looking around like they didn't what on earth was going on, and then one called a play and they all bounced away in every direction, just having a ball. When Madeleine first saw it, she thought someone had spread cotton balls all over the yard." She took a sip of hot, honeyed tea. "I should make wassail. Warms the insides all the way out."

"You must miss it. Texas, I mean."

"I do. But I can go back to visit. I want my sons to grow up closer to Germany without living in Germany, and they'll have their cousins around, too. I like to go home at Christmas or Thanksgiving… maybe both, actually… and see my kinfolks, go hunting, spend a night or two in New York, too, and take the boys ice skating."

He slowly got to his feet, and India was happy to let him help her up. For a moment, they stood staring at each other, and she finally drew in her breath. "What were you saying, in the kitchen? No view… lots of space?"

"It was a phrase I heard once, somewhere. It seems to describe me pretty well. No view—nothing pretty about it, no frills. Tons of space, because there's nothing taking up any room, because I travel light and don't like to accumulate too many possessions and was always ready to move. Kembleford has been my first… _home_ , actually. At first I thought I'd hate it here, after being in the middle of so much action in London, but… I find this place rather… "

"Simple?"

"Yes, aside from all the suspicious deaths and a meddling priest. And peaceful, too. I sleep a little better. In London, there's noise and traffic. In Kembleford, it's bells every morning and little old ladies pestering me about dogs." He took a drink of his Coke.

"And what does that have to do with me, Alex? About the lack of view and excessive space?"

She could see that he was struggling to overcome his reserve, and possibly even his pride, and she waited, praying he would trust her, at least a little. A small bit of trust today could be more tomorrow, after all. "I just wonder if maybe it's time I started getting a better view, and adding a few things into the space. And if you're… up to it…"

A loud bang from the library across the hall made them both jump, and even though he looked very irritated, Sullivan immediately rushed out and pulled the doors open.

A rather thin man in black was trying to open a window, and yelped in surprise when Sullivan grabbed him and almost lifted him off the floor. Duncan and Lachlan both came stumbling in from the kitchen, both wearing flowery aprons, and India stepped around Sullivan, staring at the squirming man in astonishment.

"Where on earth did you come from?" she asked.

"Let me go!" the little man wailed, and Sullivan dropped him back to his feet.

India heard Duncan whisper, "Let's not ever make than man really mad."

"How did you get in here?" Sullivan demanded.

"Through the… I mean… er… " The man was shivering, and looked rather dirty, and he swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing up and down. He seemed to have been made entirely of skin and knobs, and he looked desperately hungry.

"The what?" Sullivan said, giving the man a hard shake, making him flop about a wooden puppet.

"Alexander, stop shaking him or his arms will fall off," India said gently. "What are you doing in my house?" she asked the intruder.

"I couldn't stand it in that tunnel anymore! They told me to wait for 'em, but then the snow started fallin' and they didn't come, and when I tried to open the hatch it wouldn't budge!" the little man wailed, wringing his hands anxiously. He was dressed entirely in black, with a black wool cap, but his clothes were streaked with brown mud, and he had left muddy prints on the floor when he had gone to the window to try and escape. He had left muddy fingerprints on the glass and sash, too.

"What tunnel?" Lachlan asked.

"The… oh." The man blinked and exhaled in relief when Sullivan finally stepped back, but there was still a good deal of mayhem in his eyes. "It's… er… " He looked around the room, weasly little eyes darting back and forth between Sullivan, Lachlan, Duncan and India. "I swear, ma'am, we weren't takin' nothin'! They told us not to touch a thing—just do some damage somewhere!"

"So you're one of the men who did this?" India asked, nodding at the ruined wall by the fireplace.

"Who are 'they'?" Sullivan asked tightly.

"Um… er… I never met 'em. Please… I'm really cold and… and I ain't had nothin' to eat in two days now! I almost broke into a bottle of… "

"Bottle?" India asked.

"Erm… "

"What bottle?" Duncan asked.

The man clammed up then, and Sullivan looked like he might start shaking him, but India stepped between them and gently pushed him away. She looked at the little man. "What is your name?"

"Bernie Scroggins."

"Well, burglar or not, we can't have you starving or dying of thirst here. We're in the middle of a bit of a blizzard, so come along and we'll get you a bite to eat."

Bernie looked like he might begin weeping. Sullivan glared at him, clearly not happy with the situation, but he said nothing and dragged the dirty little man into the kitchen and ordered him to sit at the table. India got some leftover roasted beef and potatoes out of the refrigerator, and put them in the warming oven. She got out a bowl of savory gravy and poured it into a pot and set it on the stove to heat, and got bread from the cubbard and sliced several pieces, added generous amounts of butter to each slice, and popped them into her little toaster oven. Within minutes, the scent of roasting beef and toasting bread was intoxicating.

Sullivan sat down across from Scroggins, glaring at him, and her brothers took up places at each end of the table. After a few moments, India placed a plate of tender beef covered with rich gravy, with potatoes and buttered bread, on the table before the man. India gave him a washcloth to clean his hands, and everyone watched the intruder wolf down the food, making rather vulgar but appreciative gobbling sounds.

"Oh, God… this is so good… " he whispered, mouth full. "Better than anything I ever ate in the poke!"

"Well, that's an endorsement if I ever heard one," India said, and Duncan snickered.

They let the man eat, and he didn't complain when India only gave him water to drink—he guzzled down three large glasses full before he was satisfied.

"Now. Tell us what the hell you were accomplishing by tearing up that wall," Sullivan snapped. "Then tell us how you got into the library without unlocking the damned doors."

Scroggins shrank into himself, looking warily at the three men glaring at him. India went back to the kitchen and turned off the ovens and the burner and began packing up the remaining food and putting it away.

"You might want to consider telling the truth, too," Sullivan said, a little more quietly. "Because I happen to be head DI with the Kembleford police."

The burglar's shoulders sagged. "So I'm under arrest?"

"That should seem fairly obvious," Sullivan answered. "So why did you break in and wreck the wall in the library, and how did you get in?"

Scroggins sighed. "There's a secret panel… right by that little curio cabinet. It's apparently been there for years, and my contact knew about it."

"Who is your contact?" Duncan asked, getting a sharp look from Sullivan. The young man made an 'oops' face and sat back in his hair, looking a little chagrined.

"If I tell you that, I'll be dead in a week."

* * *

The sun was coming up, but the snow as continuing to steadily fall. At least it wasn't blowing any more, and India opened the door to breath in the air. Despite the cold, she loved seeing the air shimmer and sparkle with frozen condensation—it made the snow quite lovely and entirely magical as sunlight glinted on the crystals. A small shaft of sunlight was coming through the clouds, and she laughed, remembering her grandfather always saying that light through clouds meant the sun was drawing water. She could only hope, for everyone's sake, that the sun wasn't drawing more snow or they were in for some rough days ahead.

Everyone was still asleep inside. She had insisted that Bernie the Burglar be given a bed, and Sullivan had gone out to his car, holding a length of rope tied to a pillar, and returned covered with snow and carrying a pair of handcuffs. The spindly little thief was bound to the metal bars of a bed and was soon sound asleep, apparently accustomed to being confined anyway. Sullivan had finally given in to complete exhaustion and collapsed into bed in one of the guest rooms, and her brothers had tottered off to their respective rooms as well and were both out cold, unlikely to rise again until noon.

The phone was ringing when she went back inside, and she answered quickly, hoping the noise hadn't awakened the men in her life, including her little burglar, who she suspected would start bleating for some food again soon.

"India, darling… I'm so glad to hear your voice! Are you all right?"

"Oh, I'm just fine, Felicia. Are you snowed in, too?"

"Completely. Bored silly, too, but we've got out a bunch of games and liquor, so we should be fine."

"Well, don't play 'Pin the Tail on the Donkey' while drunk," India said with a laugh. She looked up to see her brothers in the doorway, both looking a bit weary. "My brothers and… and Inspector Sullivan are all here, by the way."

"Your brothers and Inspect—oh. Goodness. Well, I'm sure they're all keeping you entertained."

"As best they can. I'll call you later, Felicia. I think I have to go cook breakfast or my brothers will start chewing on the doors."

"And Inspector Sullivan?"

"I have trouble picturing him chewing on doors, and he's still asleep, too."

" _Ooooh_."

India her the innuendo in that one little word, but she bit her tongue. Had things gone right, and had Scroggins not started rattling around in the library, India supposed she might well still be asleep, too, and lying next to Sullivan. She said goodbye and rang off and looked up to see her brothers standing outside the lounge door, looking as cheerful as ever. Hm. Perhaps not, she thought. Her brothers would not be pleased to learn that she had gone to bed with anyone without churching first. Then again, they were not judgemental and did not dare tell her what to do unless they were into limping.

"So what do y'all want for breakfast?" she asked.

"We'll cook. You'd better go check on Sullivan. We'll release Bernie the Inept Burglar and keep him in our custody, but right now our little thief is snoring like a freight train—pulling the curtains in with every breath. Sullivan barely twitched when we tried to wake him, and I think he needs to sleep past seven for once anyway."

She smiled softly and nodded. "I'll be down later." She knew her brothers were more than competent cooks themselves, though they tended to go for 'manly' cuisine like barbecue and chili, but both them (and the other six) could scratch up a nice meal whenever required, and Madeleine regularly won prizes at the county fair for her cooking.

Needing something to do, India went upstairs to gather up some of her laundry, and almost collided with Sullivan, who came out of his room as she reached the landing. He looked at least a little less strained.

"Good morning," she said. "Did you sleep well?"

"Er… two hours."

She shook her head. "Well, my brothers are making breakfast. Perhaps you can release Mr. Scroggins from his irons and let him eat, too?"

Sullivan shrugged and she went back downstairs, leaving the laundry for later. Her brothers had prepared two teetering stacks of pancakes, as well as numerous sausage patties, hash browns, and scrambled eggs. She helped her brothers prepare plates for everyone and got the maple syrup out of the pantry, and by the time she sat down Sullivan and Scroggins appeared in the doorway, the thin little man staring in awe at the plate India had prepared for him.

"I hope your brothers are good cooks, too," Sullivan murmured to India as he sat down. She smiled.

"All the Collins kids are good cooks. Madeleine's husband won't eat out." She unfolded her napkin and tapped Duncan's hand. "Grace."

"Oh. Right." He led a quick, simple prayer of thanks and everyone tucked in. Sullivan had sampled India's pancakes before, and found that her brothers' versions were quite good, but they didn't have India's magic touch. Just the same, everyone enjoyed their breakfast, and afterward, Scroggins kept nodding off, so Sullivan and Duncan took him back upstairs and handcuffed him to the bed again, with promises to wake him again for lunch.

"That man has clearly missed more than a few meals," India said. "That's probably why he went into a life of crime."

"If lack of decent cooking was the cause of criminal behavior, India, then every person in England would currently be in prison," Duncan pointed out. "Oooh! Coffee! Thanks, Inspector."

Sullivan poured everyone a cup of 'copper fuel' and sat down, letting himself relax a little. "This entire situation is bizarre. Scroggins won't divulge what's down there in the tunnel, and I'm not too keen on searching it yet. It might be a whole bloody labyrinth anyway. He mentioned a bottle, though—I'm guessing a bottle of wine? Maybe… old wine?"

"I would assume so," India said. "Chateau Petrus, or something even more ancient. If we find it, David could tell us what it's worth. It could be that and anything else."

"How they got into the library without unlocking the doors is also clear now," Duncan said. "C'mon, Lock, let's go check out that secret panel. Y'all comin'?"

"Um… no, I think we'll stay here," India said, sipping daintily at her rich, delicious coffee. When they were gone, she crossed her knees and sat back in her chair, studying Sullivan for a moment.

"Two hours sleep or not, you still look like you've been ridden hard and put up wet," she said.

"I'm not sure if that's a compliment or not."

"It's not. You look exhausted."

"Been a rough couple of days."

"Very true. What are your Christmas plans?"

He actually looked bewildered, then sighed. "Oh. Right. Forgot all about Christmas."

"The lack of decorations around here isn't helping, I suppose. I haven't gotten around to it yet, and then I went to London and… "

Sullivan nodded slightly. "We probably shouldn't talk about that."

"No. Probably not." She cleared her throat. "But I do need to tell you… I… I did not spend the night with Edgefield. He was just looking for his cufflink—I got a bit… er… "

"Pissed."

"Yes. As a newt. He put me to bed, I think, and lost the cufflink. You just arrived at… "

"A very inopportune time."

"Right."

His expression was guarded, and India wondered if he was rebuilding that hard wall of ice around himself again. He sipped his coffee, and she watched him, hoping and fearing at once.

"I know you didn't sleep with him, India. But I have moments of irrational recklessness, and when it comes to you… well, I get terribly irrational and… well, maybe a bit crazy."

"Indeed you do!" she said, giving him a mischievous little smile, happy relief sending little sparkles of joy through her entire body. "But even then, I shouldn't have slapped you."

"I probably deserved it. I was being… "

"A horrible goblin?"

He tried to glare at her, but his mouth quirked. "More like a jealous fool."

"Oh… "

"And was for what I said yesterday, about how you purchased me… " He drew in his breath. "I'm afraid you just can't throw me out, India. Fifty pounds is a lot of money… "

"Please don't tell me it's about the money, Alexander… "

"No. It's not. But I've been paying rent to you since VE Day."

She stared at him, bewildered, and her brothers came clattering in, both a bit muddy. When they saw India's expression, they both paused and looked apologetic. "Sorry. We're makin' a mess, but Lock squeezed in there and had a look-round, but that tunnel is dark and cold and wet and kinda narrow, and neither of us is too keen to go in there without knowing what we might run into—we don't like bogeys, that's for sure. You don't have a flashlight around here, do you?"

"I don't know. I've not unpacked a lot yet."

"Well… I guess we should wait 'til we get a pack of constables out here to do the real exploring," Lachlan said, looking at Sullivan, whose expression had hardened a little.

"That would be best," he said.

"Right. All right. Well, the snow's stopped," Lachlan said, nodding his head towards the French doors. Sullivan looked back and sighed.

"That means we have to start digging out."

"'fraid so. Damn, must be least two feet of snow out there!" Duncan said. "Been a while since I've shoveled the stuff. Not since I was out in the Chisos range and spent two weeks… " he paused, expression growing rather sad. "I'll take first shift at clearing the drive and walking paths a bit, and Lock can pitch in after a while, and then you and I can clear a path out to the stables, Sullivan."

Sullivan nodded and stretched a little, watching the two young men leave. "They seem to enjoy working."

India shrugged. "They've been working since they were old enough to walk," she said. "Our first chore, growing up, was to pick up pecans, and then as we got older we were feeding the animals and so on. Mother made the boys help with housework, too, and Granny taught them all to cook. She said that a man who can't even sew a button back on his shirt or cook his own dinner is about as useless as a teat on a boar, so they had to learn how to keep a house clean and even how to make their own clothes when needed." She laughed as she stood up. "My brothers were probably the only boys in all of Llano County who knew how to make a dress from a Butternick pattern."

She stood and collected the empty plates and cups and carried them to the sink. Sullivan remained at the table, running things through his mind, and tuning everything else out.

The two burglar/vandals had gotten into the house through a secret door and proceeded to destroy the wall, but as yet their motivation was unknown. There was a long tunnel extending from under the loggia and possibly fairly far back into the property, and a pile of rocks covered a bunch of planks laid out at the western border of the property. It seemed logical that the tunnel might lead to whatever might be hidden under those planks, and also to the other point of entry, as Scroggins had stated he had been in the tunnel two days, and thus couldn't possibly have gotten in from the western side of the estate. He got up and went out to the front hall and searched through his coat for his notepad, and went into the library to do a bit more thinking, and he needed to focus on the matter at hand-India washing dishes and humming a vaguely familiar tune made something in his chest ache.

Lachlan and Duncan had left the secret door slightly ajar, and Sullivan peeked inside it, wishing he had a torch. It was just dark up close and very dark farther away, and he noted that the floor of the tunnel was of the same kind of stone in the kitchen, which meant it had to have been built at roughly the same time the additions were made to the place, in the late 1890's. He made a note to check the local archival records for who did the building then, and to see if blueprints were available.

Finally, he flipped the page over and stepped back, doing a quick sketch of the secret doorway and noted its approximate measurements and the exact place where a bit of pressure against a slight bump made the little door open, then peered into the darkness again and did another sketch, showing the width and height of the passageway. By that time, the room was freezing and his hands were getting numb. He went back out and found India coming down the stairs with a basket of laundry. "Need any help?"

"Oh, no. I've got just one load. My sons were supposed to have come back home today, but with this snow I doubt my brother can drag them inside to get ready, and the wireless said the roads are still a bit… iffy and to stay off them unless absolutely necessary. I need something to do." She continued on down the hall, and he followed her, thinking about the idea of handling some of her underthings and feeling guilty for thinking about it at all. Then again, he supposed he would be quite enthusiastic about handling them if she asked him to help her take them _off_.

* * *

"Lady Felicia, truly you must try and drag your mind out of the gutter. We both know that Inspector Sullivan would not take advantage of the princess in a situation like this."

"I wonder why he was there at all. You don't suppose something's happened?"

"He didn't say?"

"You honestly believe he would tell me? And I spoke to her, not him."

"Oh. Well, I seriously doubt he's holding them all captive. Sullivan might be a tad reckless at times, but… " Father Brown sighed. "At worst, he's just gaining weight from eating all her glorious cooking."

* * *

Lunch was hot soup and sandwiches—thick, hearty tomato soup and grilled chicken and cheese sandwiches, which everyone ate with great enthusiasm. Scroggins gobbled his meal with obvious delight and whined when he was hauled back upstairs to his 'cell'. After everything was cleared away, Sullivan went with Duncan and helped shovel snow from the door to the stable yard. By the time they finished, the sun was out and shining brightly, and the clouds were gone.

"Snowstorm's been and gone," Duncan said, leaning on his shovel and looking up at the blindingly bright blue sky. "Glad to see it go, too. I'm not made for cold weather." He eyed Sullivan for a moment. "I guess I ought to talk to you, as a male representative of the family-you know: uphold the family honor, that kind of thing."

"Eh?" Sullivan took his gloves off and blew on his hands.

"Yes. About your intentions towards my sister."

Sullivan bristled, bracing himself, though he wasn't entirely sure what for.

"You seem like a good enough fellow. Not entirely friendly, but I see the way you look at her."

Sullivan swallowed. "How do I look at her?"

"The way a fat man looks at fried food." Duncan spun the shovel. "And she looks at you the same way. I got no problem with that, and neither does Lock. She can do as she pleases—she's a grown woman, and has more common sense than most folks I know, so if she can stand you, so can the Collins clan. Plus you're a cop, which is always good in our book—we got cops and soldiers in the family already, and scads of 'em, so I reckon you'll fit right in." He scraped his boot along the edge of the path, kicking away ice. "But I'll say what I said to John Cowan Morgan when he started circlin' around my baby sister Madeleine: you hurt that woman's heart, or raise your hand to her even once, and the best scent hounds in Tennessee won't be able to find your body." He held out his hand, smiling, as friendly as ever. "So we're square?"

Sullivan shook his hand, still a little stunned. "Er… yes. Very much so." With that, they resumed clearing the pathway in companionable silence.


	9. Chapter 9

Sullivan had no memory of having fallen asleep, much less having wandered into the lounge after shoveling vast piles of snow, and collapsing on the sofa. Nonetheless, he woke up with a blanket spread over him, the fire crackling cheerfully and the scent of chicken roasting. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and trailed into the kitchen, stomach growling.

India was pulling something out of the oven, and as he approached he saw it was a pan of chicken, white rice and cream sauce. He waited until she set the pan on top of the Aga and uncovered it before he cleared his throat.

"Well, you've been out for some time," she said, tossing her oven mitts on the countertop by the stove.

"What time is it?"

"Almost five thirty."

He couldn't remember the last time he had taken a nap. Probably back when he had been a baby, he figured, and even then (according to family lore) he had been a difficult sleeper. "What is this?" he asked, nodding at the pan.

"Chicken and rice," she said. "With cream of chicken. I need some crackers to crumble on top." She pointed at a cabinet and he searched through it until he found a box of Ritz crackers. She took a package out, banged it on the countertop a few times until its contents were properly broken into pieces, and poured them evenly on top of the still-bubbling chicken and rice. "There you go. Could you get the bread out of the toaster oven? I've got a dewberry pie warming, too."

"A _what_ berry pie?" he asked, bewildered.

"You'll see."

He got the bread out, and admired the perfectly golden pieces, all properly buttered, and she got the pie out.

"Dewberries are kin to blackberries, but are a bit more tart," she said. "My grandmother made a wine out of these things that she insisted was only for medicinal purposes, but I knew she was pulling my leg on that. A nip of the stuff is enough at dinner, but after a whole glass you end up in a tree, naked and meowing."

"I guess I'll have to avoid it."

"Well, there's some people I wouldn't mind seeing naked."

She carried the pan out to the little dining area, leaving him a bit stunned. After getting his brain going again, Sullivan carried the bread out and returned to peer at the pie, overcome with curiosity. He was about to sneak a sample when India slapped his hand away. "Dessert, Inspector."

"Killjoy," he said, and returned to the table, sitting down to wait. A few moments later, her brothers appeared with Scroggins between them, the little thief staring in awe at the pan's contents.

"What's this?" he asked, after being placed in his seat. "Oh God, it smells marvelous! Me Mum never cooked stuff like this!"

"It's chicken and rice," India said. She tapped Lachlan's hand. "Grace."

The young man said a quick prayer, asking God to particularly bless the hands that prepared the food, and when he finished everyone dug in. Within just a few minutes, the main course was gone, as was all the fresh-baked bread. India shook her head in amazement. "Throughout my life, the main thing I've heard at every meal was just rhythmic chewing."

"India, you're still the champ," Lachlan said, with a happy sigh. "What's for dessert?"

"Dewberry pie."

The Collins boys looked positively delighted. Sullivan was more wary, but once everybody had a piece, he took a small bite and blinked at its perfect balance of sweet and tart, then ate the rest slowly and reverently. Whatever a dewberry was, it made damned good pie. Then again, India could probably make good pie out of a pile of dirt and some sticks.

Everyone's head went up when they heard bells jingling outside, and Lachlan looked at the little owl calendar in the center of table and then at his sister, mildly confused. "It's only the twenty-second!"

That got him four blank stares, and he looked a little embarrassed. "I mean… er… well, anyway, somebody must be here. If not Santa Claus looking for dewberry pie."

India got up and went out to the front door, and returned with her oldest brother David and her two sons. "Look what came in a one-horse open sleigh!"

The boys raced in to greet their uncles with hugs and kisses, and they looked startled when they saw Sullivan, but they greeted him politely. Scroggins was entirely out of place there, however, and once everything had been explained and the little thief had eaten his fill, he was hauled upstairs by Duncan. When he came back down, everyone had moved into the lounge, Sullivan sitting slightly apart from everyone, in a chair close to the fire.

"So y'all came up here in a sleigh? That's a good ten miles!" India said, holding her two boys in her lap and cuddling them.

"You know old Mokey didn't mind. She loves the snow."

"I'm so glad you brought Mokey across the pond, David!" She looked at Sullivan. "She was the first horse I ever bought with my own money. Good Lord, she must be twenty-five now!"

"Yep. Dam of twelve excellent riding and show horses, too, and sound as a dollar even now. Max and Sebby have been riding her every day, so she's as fit as a three-year old filly and was barely even winded when we got here." He grinned. "Your boys got tuckered out, though."

The two little princes had fallen asleep, sitting on each side of their mother, her arms wrapped around them both in a warm cuddle. Sullivan cleared his throat a little, making everyone but the sleeping boys look at him.

"I should be going. I think the roads must be all right by now."

"You don't have to leave," India said. "There's still plenty of room… "

"I should get to the station and see if anything needs taking care of," he said, standing.

David looked Sullivan up and down, expression unreadable, and he stood as well. "You're that Sullivan fellow, right?" He held out his hand, and Sullivan took it. There was a brief test of mutual strength, and David appeared to call it a draw and let go. "Glad to finally meet you. I've heard a good bit about you."

"All good, I hope," Sullivan answered, studying the Duke of Errington with interest. He didn't look like a Duke, that was for sure. He looked more like John Wayne… who, ironically, was called Duke.

"Mostly." David grinned at him. "The criminal element around here has few good things to say about you, I'm sure."

"That's the goal," Sullivan answered. He looked at India, who was clasping her hands together anxiously. "I'll see you soon, I suspect. We've still got this investigation going on. Once the weather clears a bit, we'll see about the tunnels."

"Yes, of course," she said, and he didn't miss that she looked a little distressed. "Thank you, Inspector."

"Alexander."

"Yes. Alexander." She smiled, and her brothers watched their exchange with varying degrees of amusement. Lachlan and Duncan went upstairs to collect Scroggins, and Sullivan shook hands with the two young men before dragging his sad prisoner outside into the cold dusk air.

"I hope they're good cooks at Kembleford gaol," the little thief said morosely.

"I'm afraid not. On tonight's menu, I believe it's roasted boot and shoe-leather pie, and I don't think you want to know how they made the gravy."

Scroggins wept all the way out to the car.

* * *

The streets of Kembleford had, for the most part, been cleared of snow, so at least the drive in was uneventful. Sullivan delivered Scroggins to the station to be processed and put in a cell, and once he had things squared away and had gone through a few files, he made a few phone calls, then called Goodfellow in and told him all he knew about the break-in and the secret passageway. The Sergeant pondered the situation, and was as curious as Sullivan about what might be hidden underground at Applecross.

"Any other major developments in town?" Sullivan asked, unable to keep from yawning.

"Not really, sir. The Ridgley dogs are still nowhere to be found."

"Huh." Sullivan absently drew a picture of a West Highland terrier on a piece of paper, and Goodfellow leaned forward, peering at the picture.

"That's a right good sketching there, sir. Where did you learn?"

Sullivan's shoulders sagged. "Around. Wells is still working that case?"

"Yes. So far, no one has called to complain of barking, so… we think maybe whoever has them is out of town."

"Possibly, but I really think it's someone local. Either way, tell him to keep looking."

"Yes, sir. You were… out for almost two days. Is… er… everything all right?"

"Everything's fine. Just got snowed in." He handed the Sergeant the file on the break-in at Applecross. "Read through this, and interview Scroggins. I've written down everything he said, which isn't much. Lean on him a bit and see if he spills any further beans. I believe his brother Horatio is also in the cells, but don't let them know about each other's presence. In the meantime, I am going home."

Goodfellow was quiet as Sullivan pulled his coat on and prepared to leave. "Sir?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think the princess might be in danger out there?"

"Hardly. She has two of her brothers staying with her for now, plus she knows how to defend herself quite effectively." He yawned again, two helpings of chicken and rice finally catching up with him. He nodded and left, walking home in the dark, feeling remarkably calm and letting himself enjoy the crisp, biting cold. He walked home slowly, not minding the cold, and even though he had to climb into a lonely bed alone, he didn't feel entirely lonely.

* * *

Sullivan was up early the next morning, and ate an uninspiring breakfast before heading up the street towards St. Mary's. He managed vague nods of acknowledgement to people he passed, even smiling slightly at Mrs. McCarthy when she nearly bumped into him as she came out of a shop.

"Inspector! You're looking… well, rather… " She paused, brow furrowed. "You almost look… cheerful."

"I do?" He shrugged. "Must be something I ate."

"Ah."

"Spent a night at Applecross. I believe you've tried the Princess von Altburg's cooking." He touched the brim of his hat and continued on, knowing she was staring after him, and then rushing off to get the rumor mill going. He supposed he could call that her Christmas present—she and her cronies in the Women's Institute could chew on that piece of fat until New Years' at least.

Before heading to the constabulary, he decided to take care of a matter that he could no longer avoid. It required a good bit of swallowing his pride, but it was almost Christmas and he felt it had to be done.

He knocked on Father's Brown's door, wondering if the priest was at the church hearing Confession, and was about to leave when the older man pulled the door open. For a moment, the priest stared at him, and Sullivan almost burst into laughter at the sight of a priest wearing a frilly apron—the same one he had worn when he had served him breakfast at the presbytery, when he was hiding out after escaping imprisonment.

"Don't tell me I'm under arrest, Inspector."

"You're not. I need to… er… talk to you about something."

"Oh. All right. _You're_ not in trouble again, are you?"

"No. I don't think so."

Brown stepped aside and Sullivan went in, looking around warily for Sid Carter, but there was no one else about. He peered uneasily at all the statues of the Virgin Mary and the pictures of Jesus (though Sullivan doubted a Middle Eastern carpenter would have looked that weak and moony), and figured he ought to tell the truth, even if he wasn't a Catholic. His Protestant upbringing and lingering anger at the Creator kept him from genuflecting, but it was almost Christmas, and he did believe, and… well, it wasn't God's fault that his father had been an unfeeling martinet.

"I'm guessing you're getting ready for the big Christmas… er… Mass."

"Yes, and Friday afternoon we're having a Nativity play, performed by local children. Would you like some tea?"

"Thank you," Sullivan nodded, and removed his hat. He heard Christmas music on the wireless, and listened as a group of children sang _Adeste Fidelis_ while Brown put the kettle on.

The priest returned with a cup, and Sullivan drank, still standing.

"You're free to sit if you like, Inspector," Father Brown said kindly. "How can I help you?"

Sullivan inhaled slowly, gathering his thoughts. "I figured that, considering it's almost Christmas, that I ought to… er… apologize to you for my… less than… " He cleared his throat. "I have not always treated you with proper respect, and I apologize for that. I _don't_ appreciate you meddling in my cases, mind, but I can't deny that you have been helpful in the… er… resolution of several of them and I should… thank you."

To say that Father Brown was shocked would have been an understatement. He stood there, mouth agape for a moment, which Sullivan found rather gratifying, then he nodded, collecting himself. "No need to apologize, Inspector. I know I've caused you a good deal of stress… " He cleared his throat. "Please bear in mind, Inspector, that I think you are an outstanding detective. Your only flaw, if you want to call it that, is that perhaps you don't always take human behavior or nature into account. Though I daresay you are getting better at it."

Sullivan drank down the rest of his tea. Father Brown looked around the room, momentarily at a loss. Then he brightened. "Any news yet on the break-in at Applecross?"

The detective's mouth twitched slightly, and Father Brown seemed to brace himself for a dressing down for butting in, but Sullivan sat down on the rather worn sofa and put his cup on the coffee table. "We caught a spindly little man in the library last evening, actually." He took the cup and swallowed down the rest of his tea. "Do you know of the Scroggins brothers?"

"I don't recollect them as part of my flock." Brown sat down, expression eager.

"We found Bernie Scroggins trying to get _out_ of the library, and it was locked from the inside. There seems to be a secret door in the library, next to that little curio cabinet…?"

Brown looked startled, but nodded.

"Anyway, it's opens into a very narrow passageway. We also found a bunch of planks, covered by a rock cairn, on the western edge of the property, and so we're guessing there's another entryway somewhere else on the estate, but at this point the snow is too deep to do a thorough search. The burglar was apparently one of the two men who did all the damage to the wall. He's not talking, but from what little he has said, we're thinking there's some important items hidden somewhere underground on the estate. Could I have some more tea, please?"

Father Brown jumped up and went back into his kitchen and returned with the pot. He poured Sullivan another cup, adding a dollop of cream and no sugar. "Biscuit?"

"No, thank you. We're reduced a bit on manpower right now, what with the holidays. One of my constables is currently assigned the task of locating a pair of kidnapped West Highland terriers, and I've let everyone else besides Barnstable and Goodfellow off for the remainder of the week to spend time with their families, and none will be back until Monday. So… " He cleared his throat, pulling at his collar a little. "I seem to require a bit of… outside assistance."

"I'm delighted to help in any way… "

"But you'll keep nothing whatsoever from me," Sullivan said, giving the priest a narrow look.

"Certainly."

"When you have time, perhaps you could go through the local archives for information on recent additions to Applecross. And so long as Scroggins… the burglar… does not identify as Catholic, lapsed or otherwise, I would allow you to interview him. If he does identify, however, you will not be allowed near him. If I permit you to… consult on this matter, you will withhold absolutely no information from me whatsoever. Scroggins might be willing to talk to a man of the cloth, anyway." He scratched the back of his neck, not liking to admit that Brown was remarkably easy to talk to.

"Can I hope that you would not withhold information from me, Inspector?"

"I am under no such obligation, sir." Sullivan drank down the last of his tea. "But fair is fair. I will tell you what I learn. Thank you, sir, and Happy Christmas."

"Thank you, Inspector. I don't suppose I'll see you at Mass."

"Hardly."

"Agnostic?"

"Nothing approaching. Protestant. With probably more than my fair share of protesting."

"Ah." Father Brown smiled. "I had a hard time imagining you as an agnostic, much less an atheist. Policemen are in a dangerous line of work—a bit of faith can often… ease some of the burden, perhaps?"

Sullivan nodded. "Think as you like. Bring whatever you find about the house to the station, and check in at the desk before you see Bernard Scroggins. This has to be above board, Father, and with all 'I's dotted and 'T's crossed, without exception." He stood, and Father Brown rose as well, extending his hand. Sullivan shook it, nodded, touched the brim of his hat and left, Father Brown staring after him, still more than a little surprised.

* * *

India went into town with Lady Felicia, Sid driving the Rolls, his nose still taped over and a bit swollen. The two women went up to St. Mary's, to watch the last rehearsal of the children's Nativity play, which was scheduled for the afternoon of Christmas Eve. India brought her two boys along, as they had never really observed anything like it before—they were being raised in her nondenominational faith, instead of Fritz's Lutheranism, and had thus never observed any kind of 'church pageantry'. She liked the notion of the play, though—it was a fine way for the boys to learn a bit about other traditions, plus they would learn a bit more about the birth of Christ (though she didn't believe He was born in the wintertime, as shepherds never kept their sheep out in cold, wet weather), and to also enjoy all the fun.

Wild children were racing around, their parents looking harried, and Father Brown was in the midst of it all, being remarkably patient with them all. Mini meltdowns were handled with calm and grace, and the ambitions of parents to see their children become stars were handled with considerable tact. India had to admire Father Brown for that—she could tolerate children not behaving like little angels, but she had no patience at all with their fit-pitching parents.

Lady Felicia and India and the boys took seats up front, next to Mrs. McCarthy, and watched the children skitter about and rehearse their lines. Things went well enough until Joseph had to kiss Mary on the cheek, and the little boy objected firmly to the entire notion of something so utterly repulsive as kissing a girl. "Well, would you rather kiss a boy?" Father Brown asked him kindly. That settled it, and the boy went through the horrible ordeal with only a look of disgust on his face. The children sang _Hark the Herald Angels Sing_ off key, messing up the lyrics ("Glory to the new bored King… piece of earth and Marcy mild, God and dinner crocodiled…"), and India thought she was going to die.

With rehearsals over and Father Brown finally able to stop laughing, India let her sons loose to go meet the other children. She kept out of it, letting them sniff each other, form teams, and scatter. Soon her sons were clattering about with the other boys, breaking into games, while the girls gathered in a little clutch and whispered. She sighed with relief, glad to see that her babies were both accepted fairly well into the herd. She and Lady Felicia followed Mrs. McCarthy over to where Brown was sitting, still wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

"Good heavens, it gets more hilarious every year," he said. "One time we had a dog participate, along with a donkey. Chaos. Dog grabbed the Baby Jesus and took off down the aisle, half of Bethlehem hot on his trail, and the donkey… well, let's just say he won't be invited back."

India giggled, and Lady Felicia had to sit down, remembering that particular Nativity play all too well. Mrs. McCarthy was strangely silent, and when Father Brown and Felicia moved away to look over the props on the little stage, she took India aside.

"I ran into Inspector Sullivan this morning and he… er… mentioned he stayed overnight at Applecross."

"Yes. He did." India watched her oldest son run by, chased by a little boy dressed like a shepherd. At least he wasn't carrying a crook.

"Um… I hope it was nothing… er… untoward, ma'am. I mean, you're… well, you're a young widow with two little lads and you… you.. would want to set a good example… "

"I can assure you, Mrs. McCarthy, that Inspector Sullivan was a perfect gentleman. Well, except for the time he walked in whilst I was in the show— … " She paused, watching the woman's face. "It's all right. I'm only teasing you, ma'am. He was trapped there because of the snow, that's all."

"Oh."

India could have sworn the woman looked _disappointed_.

* * *

Dropped off back at Applecross, India prepared a late lunch for her sons and brothers, and after the car was dug out of the snow and deemed roadworthy, Duncan and Lachlan drove David home. India went out to the stable yard to check on the horses—her regal old gentleman Flash in the Pan and good-natured Doc Bumper greeted her with loud nickers, while Mokey—a brown and white spotted mare, with a black mane and white tail—greeted India with her usual quiet dignity. She had one blue eye, but was not blind, and India was glad to see that she had a thick coat of winter fur for warmth. "Good old lass," she said, making sure the water in her trough was spotlessly clean, otherwise the elderly matriarch wouldn't touch it. She had eight more stalls in the stables, and David would bring her sons' ponies out in the spring, and she supposed she should buy at least two younger horses for daily riding. Flash was elderly and mostly retired, and Bumper needed cows to herd or he'd go mad with boredom. So that meant she needed to buy cows, too.

Once she was sure the horses were taken care of, the cats were eyed suspiciously and the chickens were fed and bedded down properly, she went back inside and asked Maximillian to go out and collect the mail. He returned moments later, carrying a stack of cards from friends in the States, and she sorted through everything, finding a fancy-looking invitation to a Christmas party at Boxwood Mansion, to be held on Christmas Eve.

She wasn't sure she wanted to attend a party, particularly at Boxwood. She would run into Lord Edgefield, and that would mean further embarrassment. Then again, she knew she had to maintain contacts with members of the local gentry and peerage, like it or not. She peered at the card, mouth twisting a bit. _The Earl of Edgefield and his family would be delighted with the presence of yourself and a guest at Boxwood Mansion on the evening of 24th December 1954 at 7pm. Formal, black-tie, evening wear. RSVP_.

The boys could stay at Applecross, with Duncan and Lachlan occupying them with decorating the house for Christmas and unboxing their belongings. She could invite…

India pondered carefully. Would Sullivan agree to attend something like this? He was not a very social man, though she knew he was capable of being quite charming if required (or if it suited his purposes). Plus he would look marvelous in a tuxedo, if she could cajole him into one. Then again, getting him _out_ of a tuxedo would be even more delightful.

She looked at her sons, who were on the lounge floor playing with a train set their uncle David had given them for Christmas last year. "Boys, your Mum is going to a Christmas party Friday evening. Your uncles will be staying with you, so I will expect to find the house still standing when I return."

"Yes'm," Maximillian said, nudging his brother, who parroted him.

She got the phone and called Boxwood Mansion, leaving a message with the housekeeper that she and a guest would be there. Once that was settled, she went upstairs and began sorting through her clothes for the right outfit, and soon after she decided on an elegant red, green and gold dress, she heard her brothers arrive back. She lured them into the dining room with meat loaf, whipped potatoes and green beans, and afterwards drove into Kembleford alone.

* * *

Sullivan was feeling a bit swamped.

Crimes of various sorts had been committed during the past week, regardless of the snowstorm, and each one required a proper follow-up and investigation. Two teenagers had been arrested on charges of vandalism of private property (plus a secondary charge of bad spelling and vulgarity: they had spray-painted words like 'Elisit' and 'Cunninlingwist' on someone's potting shed). A group of geese had been stuffed into the boot of a car, and when the owner of said car had opened the boot, six enraged white geese had come boiling out, honking and rushing up the road, where they had attacked several children, who Sullivan suspected would require varying degrees of therapy as a result. A group of stray dogs (none being the missing West Highland terriers) had come tearing through town after the snowstorm and broke into dustbins and spread rubbish all about, and had terrorized several cats.

Back at the station, he came upon Goodfellow and Wells trying to stop a shouting match between two old women, who had come to blows over a recipe for plum pudding. Sullivan went into his office, muttering about plum pudding, sat down and began flipping through his mail. He frowned when he noted a familiar address—a Christmas card, of all things. He tore the card up and threw it in the rubbish bin, and sat back in his chair, pondering geese and stray dogs, when someone knocked on the door.

"Come!" he called absently, and stood up when India came in.

"Hi," she said, smiling. He could only manage a nod. She looked breathtaking in a warm-looking black dress, long winter-white coat and a black and white Scottish tam that made her look much younger than her twenty-six years, and her eyes were bright and merry. "Do you have a moment?"

"Um… yes. I think so."

She sat down, elegantly crossing her legs, and he thought, yet again, that Betty Grable had nothing on her. "It seems I have been invited to a party at Boxwood Mansion, on Friday night. I was wondering if perhaps you could see your way to coming with me. I was urged to bring a guest."

"Oh." He could barely take his eyes off her legs. He had never really been bold enough to touch them during their courtship, though he could certainly remember the outer curves of her breasts against his palms. Come to think of it, he had never really touched her bare skin, except for her hands…

However good a man Prince Friedrich von Altburg had been, Sullivan suddenly hated him with a white-hot passion. He had gotten to see India, and to not only see, but also to touch…

"Inspector?" she said, jerking him from his thoughts.

"Eh? Oh. Um… right. Christmas Eve… party. At… wait, Boxwood?"

"Yes. I know that was something of a sort point on the train ride here from London, but perhaps that's… "

"A non-issue. You aren't… er… involved… "

"No. Not at all. Lord Edgefield is a nice man, but… he really doesn't have… "

"Much personality."

"… the right equipment… I mean, he doesn't… he isn't… " Her cheeks pinked and Sullivan stared at her, wide-eyed. "I mean, oh God, I can't believe I just said that. Then again, I said some things to that poor man, over dinner at the Savoy, that I never even said to… " She paused, clearing her throat. "Anyway, I was drunk and it doesn't matter. I suppose it might be a little embarrassing to dine at Boxwood, but I can endure it, and I've made my share of social fumbles over the year—we won't discuss what I did at a party with some Hohenzollern relatives of Fritz's once, though I'm sure they talk about me quite a bit. Would you be interested in taking me to the party?"

He looked down at the report in front of him, open to the page Goodfellow had written up about the origin of the carpet, and who had bought it. "It's interesting that you would ask me," he said. He tapped the page. "That piece of cloth your brothers found? It was purchased at Lockwood's Furnishings about six weeks ago, and was at Applecross, for some reason, when someone put those planks down and covered them with that cairn."

She brightened. "Really? Well, that's interesting! So perhaps we could do a bit of snooping about?"

"Well, I would."

"Now see here, Alexander James Sullivan, it's my house that was broken into, and that tunnel is still there, so folks could still get in and might try to harm my babies. I want this little mystery solved, just like you. So I would insist on being involved in the investigation."

"I won't have you endangered, India."

"You know full well that I have cannonballs for fists and can kick like a Tennessee mule."

That made him smile, and she giggled. "Well, if I go with you, we'll have to work out a plan. Some means of getting into rooms besides just the dining room and ballroom at Boxwood," he finally said, and she raised her eyebrows. "I've been there. Had to arrest the Earl's uncle Nigel—I had to search that place first, but he wasn't there, so I had to find him at his house in Mayfair. He got his neighbors to pay for his blinds in a manner that needs not be discussed."

"Oh? You mean he walked around naked a lot?" India said, sitting back in her chair. Good God, but her legs were glorious, and the normal, healthy male in Sullivan brought up the notion of seeing her walking around naked. He damned sure wouldn't pay for her blinds if she did.

"Er… well, that's… I mean… um… what were we talking about? Oh. The Christmas party. Yes. I'll be delighted to escort you."

"Not just because it might help your investigation?" she asked, expression a little cautious.

"No. Because it would be our first official, public… date." He tugged nervously at his collar. "Right?"

"I suppose it is a date. Yes. It is." She smiled, and he stood up. "Are you leaving?" she asked, standing as well.

"I have some errands to run, I'm afraid. Have to go to the grocer's for milk, bread, eggs… then I suppose I have to hire a tuxedo?"

"Oh. Yes. It is a formal event, I'm afraid. You'll have to seen with me in something rather fancy and impractical."

He came around to her side, and she stood still, looking up at him with those exquisite blue eyes, and they stood staring at each other, transfixed, until a knock at the door made them step apart as Goodfellow opened the door. The sergeant looked back and forth between them. "I did knock, sir."

"What is it?" Sullivan asked, remembering to get his coat and hat.

"Mrs. Ridgely called, sayin' she thinks she knows who has her dogs."

"Mrs. Sea Lion?"

"Eh?"

"I mean… Mrs. Willis?"

"Exactly!"

* * *

Father Brown's conversation with Bernard Scroggins got him nowhere, and he was immensely disappointed. The little thief did seem rather frightened, however, and he reported what little he gleaned to Sergeant Goodfellow. When he returned to the presbytery, Mrs. McCarthy was waiting with an invitation to Boxwood Mansion for a Christmas Eve soiree. "Formal," she said, handing him the card. "Good thing we got your cassock cleaned proper-like."

"On Christmas Eve? Will there be time after the Nativity play?"

"I should think so. You'll need a few minutes to stop laughing, and then we'll have Sid drive you. I suspect the Earl invited Lady Felicia along, too, and Bunty."

"Sounds fine. I wonder if the Earl will invite the Princess?"

"I've no idea."

"Hm. If he did, then perhaps she might invite Inspector Sullivan along as her guest?"

"Huh. Him at a soiree like that? He's not social, y'know."

"Oh, I suspect he'd do just fine, Mrs. McCarthy." He looked at the invitation. "Oh, and I'm to bring along a guest. So you can come with me. All settled. Now… you said you were going to try that recipe for lemon meringue pie?"

* * *

Sullivan hated wearing tuxedos, but at least the one he got looked good. It fit well, and even though the woman at the tailor's tried to talk him into getting a top hat and cane, he had refused—he wasn't Fred Astaire, and even though he had some skill at tap dancing (a talent he would never exhibit in public), he wasn't going to put on spats, either. Friday morning, after going through a quick fitting and finding his best black coat in his closet (untouched by moths, thank God), he was glad that at least he wouldn't embarrass India too badly. He returned to the tailor's at five o'clock to pick up the tuxedo, and the woman looked him up and down.

"Well, your lady friend will be the envy of every unwed girl in Kembleford, I can assure you."

"Uh… okay. Whatever." He checked himself in the mirror, carefully doing up the bowtie.

"I'm not joking," the woman said, shaking her head. "You'd be shocked what the girls around here say about you. Or maybe not. Most men like to learn that the girls in town think he's the whole package."

Flummoxed, Sullivan stared at her. "Whole… what?"

She laughed, shaking her head. "Hey, listen, the war depleted the pool of available bachelors, right? But they're not going to just jump into matrimony—or bed, for that matter—with just anybody. You can bet there'll be some wailing and gnashing of teeth in this little town when you go off the market."

He was completely bewildered. He hadn't stepped out with a single woman since arriving in Kembleford, save his all-too-brief 'date' with India after the auction. For four years, he had done his best to maintain a careful distance from women, partly because his career took up his time, but mainly because he wasn't sure he was even capable of forming any kind of attachment to anyone again. Losing India had left him shattered, and his bitter relationship with his father had made the decision to leave London all that much easier. He was certainly attracted to a few women he had encountered in Kembleford, but had been too…

Sullivan managed to thank the woman, pay for the tuxedo and leave. Driving back to the station, he allowed himself to admit, however painful it was to do so, that what had kept him from pursuing anyone for four years had been due to his innate shyness, as well as still being devoted to India. Before leaving London, he had had a brief, rather intense relationship with the young widow of a soldier killed in the war, but India was a shadow between them the whole time and she had ended it. Then his father had had to put his ore in on the matter, and he hadn't spoken to that man since. Not even the Christmas card he had sent had made a dent in Sullivan's resolve to never have anything to do with him again.

"Father Brown couldn't get anything about of Scroggins, sir," Goodfellow told Sullivan as he came in. "Just said he seemed frightened."

"Fine, fine," Sullivan muttered. "I'm leaving early today. You and Wells can handle things?"

"Certainly, sir. We don't anticipate a lot of trouble. Just carolers and maybe a few tipsy folks wanderin' home from the pubs."

"Good." Sullivan went into his office, closing the door. He glanced at the ruined card in the dustbin and finally got it out, removing the envelope and piecing it together. A brief note was included, and it took a few moments to get it arranged right to read.

 _Alexander,_

 _Your father's health is not good. Perhaps you might come home? He would like to see you, though he will not say so, and in this Season, perhaps you could see it in your heart to come for a visit?_

 _Lydia_

He crumbled the note and threw it away again—Lydia was his father's inamorata, if that was the right term at all, and Sullivan had sort of liked her, if only because she was a natural-born peacemaker. The card itself was as impersonal as any other—just a picture of the Three Wise Men riding camels under a star, heading towards the lights of the City of David. But inside was his father's own rough handwriting.

 _We've rebuilt the shed in the garden, and replanted your mother's little patch of flowers. They were quite pretty last spring. Hope you might come for a visit some time._

 _Happy Christmas, etc._

 _Da_

"Da," Sullivan muttered. "Still calling yourself that, are you?" He tore the card into tiny pieces and threw them back into the bin. He stood and put on his coat and hat and went out again. He heard the bells ringing from St. Mary's, calling everyone in to watch the Nativity play, and for a moment he stood, watching families piling into the church, and something made him give in and walk on up the street as well. He ducked into the church, doing his best to be as inconspicuous as possible, and he took a seat in a back pew, keeping out of sight.

The performance was a delightful disaster, as was expected. Joseph told Mary that they needed to go to 'Bedlam' to pay for their taxi; a pair of sheep got into a shoving match; the wings of an archangel fell off and landed on another sheep, knocking her flat and sending the rest of the flock scattering, which required the shepherds to round them back up, adlibbing "Get along, little dogies!" The innkeeper informed Joseph that there was 'no inn at the room', which totally threw poor Joseph off. When Mary picked up the Baby Jesus, its head fell off and rolled off the stage, which caused the entire cast to scream and scatter again. Once Father Brown reassembled Jesus, Joseph kissed Mary full on the lips, and was kicked in response. Of course, the show had to go on, because they were British, and the play ended with the children (sheep, shepherds, angels, Mary, Joseph, the innkeeper, the three wise men and some citizens of Bethlehem) butchering _Hark the Herald Angels Sing_.

Sullivan honestly couldn't remember having had a better time. Neither could the audience of parents and Kemblefordians, all of whom were laughing so hard they were crying. He got out of the building before anyone saw him, and he walked back to the station, feeling a lot better. He got in his car and drove toward Applecross, sensing that God was truly in His heaven and all was right with the world.

At least for now.


	10. Chapter 10

The casket scene was inspired by an episode of _Frasier_ , and India's thoughts about turnips are from a John Pinette standup comedy routine.

* * *

India informed her brothers of her plans for the evening just as she saw Sullivan's car pull into the drive. Duncan's eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing, and Lachlan eyed his sister for a moment. "Will you be home tonight or tomorrow morning?"

"Now you listen here," she said, pointing her finger in his face. "I can still beat you up."

"Only because Papa never let us hit you back."

"Exactly! Now. I need to say goodnight to the boys, so let Inspector Sullivan in and be on your best behavior or I will serve you hard fried eggs and burnt toast every meal while you're here."

India went upstairs, and the doorbell rang just as she reached the landing. Duncan opened the door and admitted Sullivan, who was shivering a little in the cold.

"Awfully cold," Duncan said. "Er… want some coffee or… ?"

"No, thanks." Sullivan looked around the front hall and frowned. "Where's India?"

"Upstairs, saying goodnight to her boys." Duncan closed the door and studied his sister's new… good heavens, what was he? 'Boyfriend' sounded bizarre, as Sullivan was no boy, and 'lover' was totally inappropriate and one he could not begin to use with regard to his sister. However, if it came to that, he and Lachlan would just have to accept it and keep their mouths shut.

"So… uh… " Lachlan scratched the back of his head, trying to find a point of conversation. "How's the crime rate in Kembleford?"

"Middling." Sullivan pulled his warm gloves off and blew on his fingers. Her brothers watched him, measuring him up carefully and neither could find anything wrong with the man. He was not a talker, but he was quite eloquent when required. He was clearly intelligent (one does not become a chief detective inspector anywhere by being stupid), but didn't lord it over anybody, and he was in good physical shape. The Collins men had no beef against Irishmen, either, except for Joe Kennedy, and that had to do with the man's loathsome anti-Semitism and amorality than his being Irish. On top of that, Sullivan wasn't averse to hard work, which gave him high marks in both their books. They had discussed Sullivan after lunch, while India was upstairs getting ready, and agreed that he had more merits than detractions. For now, until all the cards were on the table, they would have to withhold judgement.

India came rushing down the stairs, a little breathless, and Duncan snatched up her warm black fur-lined leather coat. Sullivan took it and helped her into it, saying nothing, and she smiled at him, then at her brothers. "Well, we'll be back when… er… we get back. Make sure the boys go to bed at nine o'clock sharp, and that they put out their milk and cookies for Santa."

"Yes'm," Duncan and Lachlan said in unison.

Sullivan opened the door and she stepped out, and he followed her, closing the door firmly behind him.

"She's gonna sleep with him," Duncan said, peering out the window and watching Sullivan help her into his car.

"You're joking!" Lachlan said. "Come on! She wouldn't… not on a first date!"

"She's crazy-nuts about him, and he was looking at her the same way I look at a bowl of chili. Yep. She's gonna sleep with him. Can't guarantee it'll be tonight, but it won't be long."

Lachlan pondered this, trying to maintain the proper attitude—he couldn't very well condone his sister doing something like that without a ring on her finger, but it was her life and she was young, unmarried and stopped traffic when she walked across the market square. Sullivan was a healthy man, also attractive and available, and they knew he would never mistreat her unless he was suicidal. Nature often insisted on taking its own course, after all, and like it or not, their sister was as human as anyone else, and they knew she was tired of being alone.

All they could do was stay out of it for now. Just the same, their shotguns were loaded.

* * *

The drive out to Boxwood Mansion was quiet but relaxed, with India not feeling even remotely nervous. Sullivan was his usual quiet self, but she could tell he wasn't terribly rattled, and that was good. Her brothers had not apparently made any threats (and they had threatened Fritz and John Morgan with violent death and dismemberment if they hurt their sisters), and the night sky was cloudless, with stars scattered across the rich dark blue like diamonds spread out on velvet. The moon was full and so bright it lit up the snow-covered fields, and India enjoyed the scenery as they made their way toward the Earl of Edgefield's estate.

"I suppose it won't be hard for Father Christmas to locate houses around Kembleford tonight," she said, giving him a teasing little smile.

He pulled into the long, stately driveway up to Boxwood Mansion, and she caught his slight smile.

"Probably not. I guess your boys are very excited."

"They can barely contain themselves. They've never had a Christmas in England that they can remember clearly, and all the snow is a definite plus. They'll be dreaming of sugarplums… though frankly, we couldn't quite figure out what sugarplums are. But no matter. They're looking forward to their big turkey dinner, with dressing and cranberry sauce… "

"What about you?"

"I can contain myself, I think, and you know I love cooking—I'll be up at dawn, getting the turkey ready and dipping into the cooking sherry." she said with a soft laugh. "Did you attend the Nativity play? I had to miss it."

"Yes, I saw it. A total disaster."

She laughed. "I expected that, but I suspect Father Brown had a ball."

He stopped the car at the front entrance of the mansion. Bright light spilled out of every tall window, a lit Christmas tree was visible in what was apparently a ballroom, and they could see several people already standing around talking or dancing. Wreaths hung in every window, and red bows decorated all the carefully clipped topiaries that lined the front steps. Sullivan got out and went around to help India out, and she looked up at the mansion for a moment, suddenly rather nervous.

"So you think that whoever broke into my home was from here?"

"We'll withhold opinions until we gather evidence," he said, and she hooked her arm through his as they walked up the steps. The door was opened by an officious-looking butler, who admitted them into the warm foyer. A maid took their coats, and for a moment they both stopped to look at each other in good light. She was as elegant and graceful as any Paris fashion model, and had far better legs. Her red, black and gold dress was molded perfectly to her body, with a low but still rather modest neckline, the gold cloth shimmering in the light, and she was wearing black high heels with red stilettos and toes—Sullivan definitely appreciated the effect, but he also suspected those things had to hurt like hell. Carefully settled in her hair was a small, glittering diamond and ruby tiara that gave her an otherworldly appearance—like a fairy princess. Except this princess could break a man's nose with the heel of her (gloved) palm and knew how to make bananas Foster that men were willing to sell their souls for.

India knew he would look good in a tuxedo, but… _hot damn_ , he looked edible. When he tugged at his collar, she playfully slapped his hand away. "Don't ruin it!" she whispered. "Oh… tails! Very nice, Inspector. You look like the proverbial million bucks."

"Er… thanks," he said.

She drew in her breath and looked around. "In places like this, you have to go by your title, like it or not, so you might as well just accept it."

The Earl of Edgefield approached then, and he kissed her hand, then gestured to Sullivan. "Sir, I must speak with you for a moment on a matter of some import… "

Sullivan raised an eyebrow, glancing at India. "Yes?"

"Um… well, er… this being Christmas Eve and we had already planned this evening and had no time to change things around, we feel it best to keep the matter hush-hush… " He cleared his throat. "See, my mother died this morning and she is upstairs in my office. In a coffin."

For a moment, Sullivan thought the peer was joking, but he saw the serious expression on the man's face. "I'm… sorry… wait a minute, what?"

Edgefield lowered his voice, and India moved closer, barely believing her ears either. "She died this morning. She hadn't been doing so well lately, I'm afraid, and her death was hardly unexpected but… well, to be rather blunt, it was very poorly planned."

"Who plans to die on Christmas Eve?" India whispered, keeping her voice appropriately low. "Unless he's in a Dickens novel, of course."

"Well, no one, obviously… I'm using the wrong term. Mummy would never forgive us if we cancelled the party, after all, and frankly, Inspector, I'm quite relieved the princess brought you along. As head of the local constabulary, I can only plead for you to… er… keep things quiet until… well… we can call the local coroner. We put her in the coffin she picked out last summer at Gloucester and… "

"For God's sake," Sullivan muttered. "Your mother died this morning and you're… "

"Alexander, please, be calm," India said. "Excuse us, Lord Edgefield." She tugged Sullivan away to speak privately. "Listen, you surely have come in contact with some of England's more eccentric aristocrats, right? I'm used to it. In fact, I'm used to crazy people back in America, too, and in the South we're proud of them! We bring them down downstairs and show them off! This is nothing compared to some stuff I've seen, and that includes a cousin in Mississippi who walked the ghost of a dead dog every day. Even if these people knew the Dowager Countess had bought the farm this morning, they'd still go on with the party because they're British, and it would ruin the Earl's reputation as a host to boot. And he's right—all the RSVPs were already returned."

"Well, so long as the Earl's social career won't be derailed and your cousin _walked a what_?"

"Never mind, Alexander. It's all right. A dead body upstairs in a coffin, during a party, is nothing. I just hope somebody's upstairs to keep cats off the poor Countess's body. Now smile and cooperate." She pulled him back into the Earl of Edgefield's little circle, and Sullivan wasn't surprised to see Lady Felicia, her niece Bunty, Mrs. McCarthy and Father Brown all bundling into the foyer, surrendering their coats and hats to maids.

"Should we tell Father Brown?" Sullivan whispered to India. "I mean… he's a priest and all… "

"This is a party, and she died of natural causes. Give him a break. Besides, the Countess was apparently a mystic and believed she would be reincarnated. Otherwise, she was a nominal Protestant. Not his territory."

"She thought she'd come back as what?"

"Last I heard, she believed she would come back as either a spider or a major film star." She turned around and turned on her friendliest smile. "Father Brown, it's so nice to see you again! Have you recovered from the Nativity play?"

The priest smiled. "Well enough. Inspector Sullivan, it's good to see you at any gathering where there's no dead people about."

Sullivan started coughing, which alarmed India until she realized he was covering laughter. The inspector let her lead him to the ballroom doors, and waited until his 'seizure' ended and he had regained some of his composure. It was then that Lady Felicia clapped her hands, laughing. "Oh, dear, look who's standing under the mistletoe!"

India looked up and saw the green plant hanging above them. She looked at Sullivan, and smiled, delighted to see his cheeks pinking a little. After a moment, he kissed her lightly, his mouth brushing hers softly and not hardly long enough, and when he pulled away she looked up at him, bemused and totally forgetting about the other people standing around watching them.

"Her Serene Highness the Dowager Princess von Altburg and Detective Inspector Alexander Sullivan of the Kembleford Constabulary."

India jumped and glared at the butler, and Sullivan seemed to pull himself together well enough. They went into the ballroom, and she smoothly introduced him to various people she knew. He couldn't help but notice how some of her friends and acquaintances looked between them with obvious curiosity, but he didn't see anyone looking at him as though he didn't belong there. He looked at her and wondered if she would be comfortable at all in his world—his tiny cottage and his hours of work and mulling over criminal investigations and his stress… or, God help him, what if her mother was right?

"It's very nicely decorated, isn't it?" she asked him. "And all the ladies look very nice in their Christmas frocks."

"Yes. It is," he managed. The ladies looked like shriveled old crones in rucksacks compared to India. "Though I'd say you look much better than any of them."

She blushed and preened a little. "Thank you. And I must say, Inspector, you look quite dashing in that tuxedo. Of course, you also look dashing in uniform. Or a suit."

Gershwin's _I've Got a Crush on You_ began playing, and Sullivan took her hand. She thought no more of anyone else there and let him lead her out among the other dancers. She sighed and relished feeling his arm around her waist and breathed in the light cologne he wore—he eschewed heavy, overwhelming aftershave and just smelled… good. Like cedar and warm sunlight and mind-blowing sex.

That thought made her jump back, startled, and he caught her before she fell over her heels. "Are you all right?" he asked, looking concerned.

"Of course. Yes. I am. Definitely. Yes." She moved back into his arms, and continued the dance, her heart pounding.

The song finally ended, and India silently indicated she wanted to sit down for a bit. They took seats along the wall, near the Christmas tree, and watched everyone dance for a moment. He suddenly began searching his pockets, and after a moment he extracted something wrapped up in a handkerchief. "I… uh… wanted to give this to you. For… for Christmas."

India shyly took the gift and carefully unwrapped it. She gasped at the sight of the tiny jeweled bluebonnet and held it up to the light. "Alexander… this is beautiful!" She watched it sparkle and shine, dazzled and delighted.

"It's just costume… "

"Don't be silly. These are sapphires and diamonds!"

"You're joking… I got it from the curio shop across from the constabulary. The most valuable thing in there is a desk that didn't belong to Wellington and some mismatched Royal Doulton."

"Alexander, I know diamonds, and I know sapphires—that's what's in one of the von Altburg family tiaras—the 'family fender', they call it. It's Russian-style and weighs a ton, and these stones are exactly like the stones in that old thing. See? The pearls are real, and this enameling was likely done by someone inspired by Faberge, and the stem is made of pure gold—I'd bet my best boots on it." She held it up again, and the diamonds flashed in the light. "How did you… oh, no, I won't ask that. My mother would roll over in her grave. But I hope you didn't spend beyond your… "

"It's a gift," he said, looking uncomfortable.

"It's absolutely lovely. Thank you so much," she said softly. "Oh, damn… I don't have anything for you!"

"That's not necessary, and you've been busy."

She looked at him and thought of what had made her lose her balance on the dance floor. Mind-blowing sex. She had been a virgin when she had gone to Fritz's bed, as an eighteen-year old bride. Her mother had been too embarrassed, really, to give her much detail about what she was supposed to do, but her grandmother, bless her, had filled her in. Thus India had gone to the nuptial bed without much fear, and it had gone fairly smoothly, but again she thought about the fact that she had never experienced the kind of thing some of her friends talked about.

India had to focus, however. She was at a Christmas party, in the home of a peer of the realm, surrounded by respectable people, including a priest, and there was a dead woman in a box upstairs and she was thinking about letting Alexander Sullivan boff her senseless until dawn?

Damn right she was.

Finally, she forced her mind to center on the matter of whoever had broken into her home and the mysterious tunnel leading into her library. That issue remained at the forefront, and could be a danger to her sons. "So how are we going to search this house without anyone noticing we're missing?" she asked. She pinned the little bluebonnet on her dress, in the bustline, between her breasts, and was thrilled when she saw Alexander's eyes linger there for a moment. She knew he wasn't looking at the pin.

"I'm working on an idea."

"Oh?"

"Just follow my lead."

She smiled and the naughty angel on her shoulder whispered, 'You'd follow him anywhere, so long as there was a bed there'. India squeezed her eyes shut, clenched her fists and told herself to stop being a horny little fool. Good heavens, was it her time of the month? When she opened her eyes, he was standing, holding his hand out for her and looking a bit puzzled.

The butler appeared in the ballroom doorway. "Dinner is served."

India cursed under her breath, which got her a raised eyebrow from Sullivan, but she meekly took his arm, but then protocol took over—he had to step aside and let Lord Edgefield, the highest-ranking man there, take her arm and lead her into the dining room.

The table was exquisitely decorated with bouquets of red and white roses, and India saw that each setting indicated a full-fledged English Christmas dinner. She called upon her training at her mother's knee and the sleight-of-hand skills leaned from her brothers, and sat down. She watched as Sullivan was given a seat across the way but far down near the end of the table, between Bunty and some googly-eyed Baron's daughter. The _Table of Precedence_ was being followed strictly, of course, and India's rank placed her next to the Earl and across from Lord de Ros, Lady Penelope's dipsomaniacal husband.

The ancient rites must be followed, she thought tiredly. Father Brown was placed next to her, and she had to clean up her thoughts carefully—heaven only knew if the man could read minds.

The first course was brought in by an army of waiters, and she stared down at the starter for the evening: prawns. She had to close her eyes, as the poor creatures were staring up at her, perched around the edge of the dish, which held some kind of red dipping sauce. She had once asked her grandfather about who had ever come up with something so dreadful to serve at Christmas, and he had told her that he didn't know, but that he was sure whoever it was had been executed shortly thereafter. India quietly but vehemently hated eating anything pulled out of the sea, particularly anything that still had a face, and she had to steel herself to keep from gagging at the sight of the vile little pink insect-like things.

"Happy Christmas to all our guests, and a blessed New Year," the Earl said. "God save the Queen!"

Quiet murmurs of similar sentiment were uttered and everyone drank down their toast. Father Brown led a quick prayer of thanks and soon, everyone was tucking into the first course, chatting amiably about nothing in particular. India reminded herself of what she often had to do to avoid giving offense and ate a prawn. Her mother would have been proud of her then—she chewed on the nasty, rubbery thing, swallowed and took up the second one. Five more to go. Dear God, please get me through this.

Lady Penelope, elegantly dressed, overly tall and wearing a sparkling little tiara, leaned forward, exhibiting a less-than-inspiring bust behind a too-low neckline for a woman her age. Not even the diamond necklace around her neck increased her charms. India knew she was being a tad catty, but really—Penelope looked like an Afghan hound in a low-cut black evening gown.

"I'm sure you find some British customs somewhat bewildering, Your Highness, despite being a British citizen."

"Oh, definitely," India said. "The language barrier is challenging. I mean, y'all speak a little English over here, but I must say you've got a ways to go."

Father Brown snickered, along with the folks seated close enough to hear. India sipped her champagne, proud of herself for eating all six of her prawns. The bowl was taken away, and replaced with turkey and a sort of stuffing with… dear God, almonds, and a bit of cranberry sauce. She did her best at eating her turkey, but she found it terribly dry, and the cranberry sauce almost stripped the enamel off her teeth, it was so overly tart.

The trimmings weren't much better—potatoes roasted in oil (India didn't understand why anyone made potatoes for Christmas dinner, when there was already dressing), so that they looked like the hooves of unsuccessful racehorses. Carrots, parsnips, and turnips made the plate look attractive, but India couldn't abide turnips. Logan had told her that turnips were God's only mistake, ever, and that He had hidden the horrible things far beneath the earth's surface, in hopes that no one would ever find them. But some idiot had dug them up and they had been used to ruin dinners ever since.

With the change of each course, everyone had to turn from the person they were talking to and talk with the person on the other side. It was like being at Wimbledon without the chance of excitement, particularly since the person to her right was the Earl. Father Brown, however, was as amusing ever.

"I'm assuming you and Inspector Sullivan have achieved something approaching entente cordiale?" he asked, sipping his champagne.

"Yes. I'm sure we'll find something else to bicker about sooner or later, but things are… calmer now."

He looked pleased. "I hope they remain that way, Your Highness. Inspector Sullivan is a good man, and you are a very charming young lady. I would say you complement each other quite well."

She found herself blushing and looking down the table at Sullivan, who was cautiously cutting into his turkey breast and clearly finding it wanting. When everyone had finished eating that, and no one looked like they needed to call for a physician, Christmas crackers were given to everyone. India pulled hers apart, finding some pretty little trinkets inside, and her fortune, which read 'A new adventure lies ahead!' She put on her paper crown, catching Sullivan's eye as he reluctantly donned his own.

Tired old jokes were told, everyone laughed dutifully, and after that, the Christmas pudding was served. It was brought out on a cart, the chef lit it on fire, and India closed her eyes, praying she could get through this demonstration of British culinary awfulness without shrieking. She took her piece, said a silent prayer, and took her required few bites and almost chipped a tooth on the sixpence. "Oh, I found the coin!" she said, elegantly spitting it out into her hand.

"Oh, very nice, Your Highness. You must make a wish," Lord Edgefield said, laughing.

India looked at Sullivan and felt her cheeks warming. As if she could speak that wish aloud, in such company and with a priest sitting next to her. She smiled and scrambled to think. "I wish for all here to be blessed with the best of health, the purest form of happiness, and the sort of prosperity that makes us all contented and willing to do what we can to help others not so blessed. Above all, may God grant us all peace for this season and all through the coming year."

"Here, here," someone said. Glasses were raised, and India breathed a sigh of relief.

As everyone ate their piece of plum pudding, India turned back to Lord Edgefield, who smiled at her as he ate his pudding with obvious enjoyment.

"You know, it's interesting that you would purchase Applecross, Your Highness," he said. "My brother-in-law Lord de Ros's family owned that estate, some years ago."

India glanced at de Ros, then down at Sullivan, who was watching her carefully. If he had been a horse, his ears would be pricking right in her direction, she was sure. "Did they?"

"Yes. He is most delighted, of course, to know you purchased the place, weren't you, Reginald?"

India had been told, once, to never trust anyone named Reginald. She glanced at Sullivan again, who made a subtle gesture to hold steady.

Lord de Ros was half asleep, but India noticed the man's hands forming into fists.

"Did he? How interesting. I hope it doesn't upset your family, Lord de Ros. I will do my utmost to see to its upkeep, and you and Lady Penelope are welcome to visit." She took a sip of her champagne, looking down at the last, charred piece of 'pudding' on her plate. That in itself was a prime example of how the British didn't speak English, as this was more like a soufflé someone had set fire to, then snuffed the flames out with a sauce made from some unidentifiable berry. In her years in England, India had never been able to figure out what berry was used to create it, but it was always horrible. She did her best to eat some, pretending to find it quite delicious, and prayed Lord Edgefield wouldn't try to insist on sending some home with her. David had commented, once, that Christmas pudding was the British version of American fruitcake: a holiday staple that nobody wanted anything to do with.

De Ros kind of lurched a bit in his seat and nodded. He had a florid complexion, a rum-blossom nose and was, from everything she had ever seen of him, a complete nonentity. "It doesn't offend us at all, Your Highness," he said, finally looking at her. She studied him carefully, noting that his eyes were not rheumy from recent inebriation. He smelled like peppermint schnapps, but she couldn't tell if that was from his breath or from him having just spilled some on his clothes.

Lady Penelope tossed down the rest of her champagne and plunked her glass down rather sharply, making everyone look at her, startled. "Well, I believe it's time for poor Reginald to be off to bed. Right, darling?"

"Yes, dearest. Rather tired, I'm afraid. Long journey out from London. Happy Christmas to everyone." He stood, far too easily for India to regard as a sign of drunkenness, and left. Lord Edgefield gave India a tight little smile, then leaned toward her a bit.

"He gets terribly tired. Runs in the family, I'm afraid. Explains how they lost Applecross."

India glanced at Lady Penelope and saw the irritation on her face, but she smiled sweetly at the woman, who returned a cool little smile. Wimbledon without the excitement indeed, India thought. She sighed as the waiters came and took the dessert dishes away, and she knew that her brothers and sons were back at Applecross, feasting on smoked spiraled ham, whipped potatoes, creamed corn and cranberry-orange salad before the larger boys dragged the smaller boys upstairs and threatened them with birch switches and pieces of coal if they didn't go to sleep.

Dessert being over, the old ritual continued on like clockwork. India sat still and politely gave precedence to Lady Penelope, the de facto _chatelaine_ of Boxwood Mansion, who rose. That was the signal for the ladies to leave the gentlemen to port and after-dinner tobacco. "Ladies, we shall retire into the lounge for cocktails and await the gentlemen."

At the dining room doorway, India glanced back and was relieved to see that Sullivan did not light a cigarette, but instead sat still—she knew he still had a smoke every now and then, but took almost a year to go through a whole pack. He poured himself a glass of port as the doors closed, and she caught Father Brown's conspiratorial little wink. She smiled back and followed Lady Penelope across the hall and into a large and prettily-decorated room, where she sat down in a wing chair and crossed her knees. Lady Felicia, looking eager for conversation, started to speak but it was Bunty who cut to the chase.

"Well, not a very good field of gentlemen here tonight. Excepting that dishy Inspector Sullivan. I've always thought him very good-looking. Icy, yes, but… mmm… imagine what happens when the ice melts."

India accepted a drink—good heavens, an orange screwdriver?—from a maid and took a sip, wincing. She was not a vodka drinker, so she was going to have to get rid of it. She looked around the room, wondering what to do, and decided that if that pot of poinsettias had to be sacrificed so she might remain sober, so be it.

"Oh, I've seen instances of him being an actual human being," Lady Felicia said, sipping her own screwdriver and sighing. "He can be quite… nice, even. Not that I'm saying he's all warm and cuddly, but he's quiet and even rather elegant in his way, and he can be very kind. Still waters run deep, they say."

"I'd say," one of the women there, whom India couldn't name, spoke up. "He won't last long on the market in Kembleford. I'm sure some little minx will snatch him up sooner or later."

Lady Penelope, settled on the sofa, crossed her knees and pretended to study her fingernails. "I've had a few ladies make inquiries about him since he arrived in Kembleford, but none of them ever seem to have broken through that thick layer of ice." She looked at India, appearing to egg her on, and India put her glass down.

"Inspector Sullivan is a gentleman," India finally said. "It's true that he is not always a nice man, but he is a good man, and those are few and far between these days, I say. And in fact, I have seen him show great kindness to people who need help."

"Indeed," Lady Penelope said, tossing back her screwdriver and pouring herself another. "I sense that you know the Inspector rather…intimately, Your Highness."

"You mean to the point of being able to draw a map indicating where certain marks can be found? I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you, ma'am, and I would not draw any such map if I did know. I met him a few years ago, in London, and we became friends. An entirely amiable friendship continues to this day."

"Friendship?" Bunty asked. "I have some good friends, but I wouldn't pay fifty pee for most of them, much less fifty pounds!"

"Then maybe they're not such good friends after all," India said, smiling at Bunty, who took the barb with good grace and only a slightly wrinkled nose. India knew the rules of the game when it came to trading acid with other members of the peerage, and she was good at it. Fortunately, so was Bunty.

"Fifty pounds?" Lady Penelope asked, looking astonished, but India knew better than to think she wasn't aware of the results of last Friday's auction. "What on earth do you mean, Mrs. Archer?"

Bunty bristled, and India sighed. "There was a bachelor auction last week at St. John's, for the eponymous orphanage, and I purchased the inspector for fifty pounds. In all, the auction raised a substantial amount for the very worthy cause of providing Christmas gifts for the children there. Inspector Sullivan was quite… pleased to be of… er… service." Oh, now you've put your foot in it, India thought, and put the glass away.

Mrs. McCarthy, silent up until then, huffed like an irritated hen, and started to speak, but Lady Felicia cut her off ruthlessly. "And I suppose the princess's past association with the inspector is really quite her own business, as would also be any type of servicing… he might have… um… oh dear." She looked at India, expression apologetic.

"And that would be the thuth!" Mrs. McCarthy said, taking another sip of an orange screwdriver. Lady Felicia jumped up, gasping in horror, and snatched the glass away from the older woman.

"Who gave this to you?" Felicia demanded.

"A tiny woman in a black and white dresh," Mrs. McCarthy said, nodding, the fake cranberries on her hat bobbing cheerfully. "Ish ver' good… "

The maid looked embarrassed. "She took it before I could stop her!" she said.

"Of service? Hm. Perhaps he ought to be put up at the National Stud," Lady Penelope said, snickering into her glass. "I'd pay the fee."

Felicia looked at Mrs. McCarthy, appalled, then glared at Lady Penelope.

India felt her hackles rising. She had heard of men having conversations like this about women, but to hear members of her own sex saying such rude things about an honorable man made her sick. "Well, so much for the feminist movement. Shouldn't we be above speaking of men in such a way, or does this not debase us all as well?"

Everyone stared at her, and Lady Penelope at least looked chagrined. For several moments, no one said a word, until Mrs. McCarthy hiccoughed. Lady Felicia helped the older woman to her feet, and just then, the doors were opened and the butler stepped in. "Ladies, the gentlemen have regathered in the ballroom."

Relieved, India led everyone out, ignoring Lady Penelope's position as hostess entirely. Frankly, she wasn't sure that woman should be allowed to host a hog killing.

* * *

Sullivan was on the verge of ripping his tie off by the time they all gathered back in the ballroom. It was like those horrible school socials he had been forced to attend, where the enemy camps (boys and girls) took up two sides of the room and waited until somebody had enough nerve to go up to a girl and ask her to dance. Those kinds of things were basically a means of the teachers getting revenge, and they had been so torturous he wondered how the school wasn't reported to The Hague. He had never been the first of the boys to go up and ask a girl to dance, but when he had finally been pushed forward, he had never been refused. Not even Maureen Killian had turned him down, and she had been the prettiest girl at Lockhaven School, with every boy at St. Lawrence's vying for her attention.

Come to think of it, she had been the first girl he had ever kissed. A few years later, just before he had gone off to France, he had spent that final night in her arms, and she had been surprisingly (and rather delightfully) willing then, too. The last time he had heard from her, she was married with three children and living in Dorchester.

He was relieved when India finally appeared, her cheeks a bit flushed, and he wondered what had happened. She gave him a tremulous little smile and the music began playing— _Tennessee Waltz_. She moved into Sullivan's arms, exhaling, and rested her forehead on his chest. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Just tired. Prawns." She shuddered.

"They didn't make you sick, did they?" he asked, holding her away from himself a moment, peering at her carefully and looking anxious, and she adored him for his concern.

"No. Just… yech! Please don't make me eat prawns again. Not even the fried kind, and I used to be able to tolerate them."

"They are hereby struck from all future menus," he said, and she laughed, looking up at him. For a moment, their gazes locked and she shyly brushed her fingers in his hair.

"Might I cut in?"

Lord de Ros was standing there, and India had to smile politely and pretend not to mind. Sullivan didn't seem quite so willing to be polite, but he let go of her just the same. She took de Ros's hand and smelled peppermint schnapps. His arm slipped around her waist, and she got a good look at the veins on his red nose.

"Lovely night, Your Highness," he said, and she knew then that he was not drunk. At least not yet.

"It is beautiful. I'm pleased you decided to rejoin the party. You're enjoying Christmas?"

"Very much so."

"Have you visited Applecross lately?" she asked, glancing across the room and seeing that Sullivan was now dancing with Bunty. She felt her claws coming out, unbidden—Bunty was no threat, but Bunty might not realize that.

"I have never actually been inside since we moved out, and I was quite young then. The family had to sell the estate in 1906."

"Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry."

"My father had done quite a bit of renovating and improving on the estate."

"Yes. The library and the loggia, and the bedrooms upstairs are all very nice. He did a very good job."

De Ros said nothing more, but she didn't miss his searching look. The song ended and he moved away, to her relief. Colonel Fitzwilliam came over and asked her to dance next, and she glanced over at Sullivan, apologetic, but he nodded. India's hackles rose, however, when she saw Penelope lope over and obligate him to ask her to dance. _Mona Lisa_ was playing, and she wished she was in the inspector's arms instead. As if he had read her mind, she heard him ask the Colonel if he could cut in. The Colonel stepped back and she sighed happily, breathing in his scent and watching Lady Penelope settle for dancing with the younger son of a baronet.

"Almost midnight," he murmured.

"Yes," she sighed. "Afraid I'll turn into a pumpkin?"

"I hope not."

She smiled and rested her head on his shoulder, moving gently to the music. He had such a nice sense of rhythm, she thought, feeling terribly warm and frothy inside. A man with a good sense of rhythm on the dance floor, after all, had rhythm elsewhere…

The song end, and she had to pull herself back together again. The clock struck twelve, reminding India of her flustered French tutor telling her the story of Cinderella ("Bong, bong, bong, and nine more… "). The party was, for all intents and purposes, over. Most of the guests would be driving home to tend to their own families and celebrate Christmas with children they only saw at meals. India glanced at Sullivan, who was undoing his tie. He stuffed it into his coat pocket, then undid the top three buttons of his shirt, which made her heart start racing.

"So… um… what is your plan?" she asked softly.

"Like I said… follow my lead." He turned around and managed a smile for Lord Edgefield and Lady Penelope. Lord de Ros had collapsed into a chair along the wall, dozing, and India saw Father Brown and his entourage already heading out the door. "Lord Edgefield, I appreciate your hospitality. We… I mean, the princess had a very good time, and so did I."

"Would you like some coffee before you go?" Lady Penelope asked him.

"No thanks. I need to get the princess home—she's not feeling very well now. Too much excitement and good food, I suspect."

"I told you not to serve prawns!" Penelope hissed at her brother, but she was ignored.

"I'm dreadfully sorry, Your Highness. I do hope you feel better very soon," Lord Edgefield said sincerely, and she smiled at him, sensing that in spite of his lack of color, he was really a very nice man. He would find a similarly colorless girl one day and have some very nice, opaque children.

"Thank you, Your Lordship. But I really do think I should go. My sons will be very upset if I'm not there when they get up tomorrow morning."

The butler brought their coats, and Sullivan helped her into his, then put his own on. They stepped out into the cold and she shivered, glad that he was there to block the wind. "I have to go get the car. Just wait here—I won't be long."

"But… "

He trotted away, and she pulled the hood of her coat up over her head, not caring if it mussed up her hair. She shivered and pulled her thick gloves on over her silk ones. Being cold meant not giving a damn about fashion, that was for sure.

He came trotting back up moments later, and she stared at him, bewildered. "What's wrong?"

"Car won't start."

"What? Alexander, I'm freezing! What's wrong with the car?"

"Nothing that can't be fixed tomorrow morning, when I put the battery cable back in." He held up a cable, then stuffed into his pocket. "Come on." He went back up to the door and rang the bell. The butler opened it, and looked a little surprised, then turned back to Lord Edgefield, who had already undone his black tie and looked very tired. "Sorry, Your Lordship, but our car refuses to start."

"Oh, dear. Well then, come back inside before you catch your deaths! It's too bad our mechanic is away for the holidays, but I'm sure we get the estate caretaker to take a look tomorrow and have it sorted out."

India was relieved to get back inside. The butler took her coat, and Sullivan surrendered his own. Lord Edgefield stared at them both for a moment, apparently uncertain, and finally Lady Penelope spoke up.

"We have spare bedrooms," she said, smiling tightly. "Separate rooms, of course. I'm sure we also have proper bedclothes for you both."

"Well, I'd hate to be under-dressed for bed," Sullivan said, expression utterly deadpan.

"Right." Lady Penelope looked him up and down, then studied India. "Well. Gerard, please see Inspector Sullivan is settled into the Blue Room, and I'll see that the Princess is placed in the Queen's Room."

* * *

India didn't get to say goodnight to Sullivan, and that irked her a good bit. Lord Edgefield was clearly too exhausted to sit up for casual chitchat, and retired to his room. Sullivan was led away by the butler to a room at the far end of the house, and India was herded by Lady Penelope into a large, cold room at the other end and turned on the lights. Everything was red, gold and white, including the wallpaper (Chinese silk, no less, and hand-painted with pictures of dragons chasing pearls), and the fireplace was made of exquisitely carved red marble. She peered at the carved nude women holding up the mantel on either side and took a step back, slightly alarmed. Breasts that large had to be hard on a woman's back.

She looked up at the huge portrait, hanging over the fireplace, of Queen Elizabeth I, and caught the Virgin Queen's beady, almost cross-eyed glare. Lady Penelope directed her to the chest of drawers, then showed her the en suite bathroom, where a red silk robe hung among red and gold furnishings. Even the shower curtain was red.

The room looked like a bordello.

"Thank you, Lady Penelope. What a… a lovely room." Fortunately for Penelope, she didn't know that in Southernese, 'lovely' was a word to use when describing a man wearing a power-blue tuxedo with a ruffled shirt.

"Queen Elizabeth the First stayed here, in fifteen-ninety-eight."

If that was so, India had a hard time believing old Bess had left this place still a virgin. "I see. Well. Very nice. Thank you. I hope we aren't putting you out."

"Certainly not. The Blue Room is also very comfortable—Kitchener stayed there."

"Oh… how… " India bit off the word 'morbid'. "Nice."

Lady Penelope bobbed and left, closing the door firmly, and India half expected to hear it lock. But all she heard was the sound of receding footsteps. She sighed and looked through the bureau, then the closet, until she found a pair of red silk slippers. Apologizing to her grandmother (who believed only prostitutes and little girls wore red to anything), she searched through the drawers until she found a black negligee that could possibly fit her. She undressed quickly, shivering, and changed into the negligee—it was a bit tight across her breasts, but it would do, and it was long enough to be at least somewhat decent. She put on the red robe and the red slippers, and rang the bell. A moment later, a footman came in and she kept out of his way as he started up the fire. Once it was properly blazing and the room was already warming up a bit, she wondered what Sullivan's plan was. She sat down in a very uncomfortable chair and drummed her fingers, waiting.

She must have dozed off, because she awoke to someone knocking lightly on her door. She jumped up and answered, relieved to see it was Sullivan standing there, still wearing his black trousers and tuxedo jacket.

"Pajamas too small?" she asked.

"You're hilarious, India."

"So what are we doing?"

He looked at her, pausing at the sight of lace exposed under the front of the red silk robe she was wearing. She closed the top of the robe a little more tightly and lifted her chin a little.

"We're… uh… going to go snooping, as you put it."

"Oh! How exciting!" She stepped out in the hall, closing the door silently. "Where do we start?"

"I overheard Lord de Ros talking about how his family owned Applecross."

"Yes. That is more than just a coincidence, isn't it?"

"Considerably more. He and Lady Penelope live here year-round, from what I learned after a few questions tonight, and he uses Lord Edgefield's office for his own business dealings. So we'll start there."

"Where did you get that bit of intel?" she asked, and he looked at her, brow furrowing. "I have at least one cousin in MI5, Inspector," she said loftily.

"How many cousins do you have?" he asked, mildly exasperated. "Anyway, that goggle-eyed girl seated next to me filled me in. She knows the history and genealogy of every family in the county, and her father and Lord de Ros are involved in a few business ventures together. He's been in that office a few times."

"Oh! That is interesting!"

"There's a filing cabinet in the office, and she believes Lord de Ros keeps his things in there, but she wasn't sure if it was locked or not. We're going to have to see… and if it's locked, we'll have to pick it." He looked a little uneasy. "That's the part I'm not sure about."

"Well, if need be, I'll pick it and you can pretend you didn't know I was going to do it."

"Now I know!" he snapped, his agitation growing.

"Shh! So long as there's no witnesses, you're in the clear, Inspector," she whispered, and pulled him back into the shadows as a maid walked by, heading upstairs to her room.

Once the coast was clear again, they continued on, heading to the other side of the house, where the family quarters were located. They finally located the office and Sullivan tried the door handle, and growled when he found it was locked.

India pulled a pin out of her hair, and a lock of dark hair came down. Irritated, she pulled the rest out, letting her hair fall down around her shoulders, and for a moment Sullivan stood there, staring at her. She gave him a gamine little smile and held up a pin. "So we have to do the Pin Dance and the door will open."

"The… the what dance?"

India raised the pin in the air and sang,

 _You stick the pin in  
You pull the pin out  
You stick the pin in  
And you shake it all about  
You do the hokey-pokey  
And you turn yourself about  
That's what it's all about!  
Ha!_

As she whispered the song, she did each step—she stuck in the pin in the keyhole, pulled it out, stuck it back in, jiggled it carefully, and heard the click of the mechanism coming unlocked, then did a little shimmy, turning around elegantly. Sullivan stared at her for a moment, then opened the door and shoved her inside before she could really finish the dance.

"You ruined my dance!" she whispered.

"I think you might be slightly insane."

"Runs in the family. Now. Which cabinet do you think it i—oh my God!" She pointed, wide-eyed, at the coffin standing on a catafalque across the way. Sullivan turned around and made a slight yelping sound. India covered her mouth with her hands, to prevent herself from screaming.

"Your Ladyship, the Dowager Princess von Altburg. Your Highness, the Dowager Countess of Edgefield. There. Introductions have been made. Let's start looking around."

"But… but… " India was shaken at being in the same room with the coffin. She had been uneasy even during Fritz's funeral, and during her mother's funeral, and during her father's and grandfather's funerals. Something about a dead body just gave her the willies. She knew it was irrational, but she was human and she had her share of irrational fears. Her brother Logan had told her that there was nothing to fear but fear itself… and spiders. Then he had placed a spider on her hand, and she had been terrified of arachnids since then, too.

"Start looking!" he hissed. "And if the cabinet is locked, bugger the dance and just unlock it!"

India went to one of the two cabinets set on either side of the door, and was relieved when the top drawer opened. She only saw information about the Boxwood estate and family trust, however, and shut it quickly. Sullivan, meanwhile, was having trouble with his quarry, and India went over and used the pin to unlock the top drawer. He nodded and began digging through files. "Aha!" he said, looking triumphant. He pulled out a file labelled 'Applecross', and began searching through it. He pulled a torch out of his pocket and turned it on, and they pilfered through the file.

"Look at this!" she whispered. "A map of the estate—these marks… this one would indicate that cairn, wouldn't it?" She pointed at an 'x' mark on a place beside the line of the road dividing the estate from the neighbor's land. "And look here—two more 'x' marks!"

"Right." He turned the pages and came upon another interesting page—a hand-drawn plan of the first level of Applecross, showing where the additions had been made—including marks where the tunnels had been added. "Good God, it's like the bloody Valley of the Kings."

India studied the map carefully, noting where the secret door in the library opened at the curio cabinet and went underneath the loggia and out to a spot under where she hoped to plant an herb garden next year. In that place was a widening of the pathway, which meant a room was apparently there. Passages spread from that room, to the east and to the west. The western passageway apparently went on to the spot under the cairn. The eastern passageway led out what appeared to be several hundred yards to another, larger room under the horse pasture, and on to another even larger room, at the northeast corner of the property.

"I wonder if they laid stone along all the floors," India asked. He looked at her, pondering.

"Possibly. Your brother said it looked like the floors were the same as what's in your kitchen."

"So Lord de Ros's family installed secret tunnels, for God knows what reason, and now someone is using them… but for what?"

"I can't help thinking that they're not terribly interested in what's in the house. You had all your boxes in there by then, right? You've got jewelry and lots of valuables, but Scroggins and his compatriot stole nothing from the house, and no one has attempted to break in since they damaged the library wall—maybe they were trying to distract you and the police from whatever they have going on in these underground rooms."

India was about to speak when she heard someone talking in the hallway. "Oh no! Someone's coming!"

Sullivan tucked the file under his jacket and he could only grab the objecting India and drag her over to hide behind the catafalque, which fortunately had a black skirt arranged around it. He turned the torch off and India held her breath, waiting for someone to come in, but the sound of footsteps receded, and they both exhaled. She scrambled to her feet, needing to get away from the casket. Sullivan sighed and shook his head.

"It's all right, India."

"It's not all right. We're pilfering through private files in a room occupied by a corpse! Listen—rooms like this, in these old country houses, often have… have secret little rooms that you access by pressing a button or pulling back a book. You keep looking at the file and I'll look for the secret room and we won't go near that casket again or I could very possibly faint."

"Okay. Fine. You look. I'll… uh… illegally peruse."

"We're both technically breaking the law," she pointed out.

"Not helping." He took the file to the desk and spread it open, using the torch to read each page. "There's been a house on Applecross since twelve-twenty-nine," he told her.

"Not helping," she whispered in response, pulling books back, one by one, and praying that something would happen. She came across a roll-top desk that had been built into the wall, and she began pulling drawers out. "A bunch of cubby-holes and almost no cubbies. What kind of dumb desk is this, anyway? I mean—" Her fumbling fingers came across a small key, stuck in a tiny drawer, and when she turned it, she watched in amazement as one of the built-in bookcases behind the catafalque began to turn in, like a turnstile.

"Well, look what the dumb desk did," Sullivan said, amused. He returned to his reading, but stopped, horrified, when he heard someone turning the doorknob to the office.

"India, get in the bookshelf!" he ordered, rushing to her and grabbing her arm. She balked, unwilling to go near the casket again, but he was determined and dragged her into the tiny space. He pulled the bookcase closed just as the lights inside the room were turned on.

There was just barely enough space for one person, much less two, and there was no room to move aside or even turn around. India's back was pressed against the shelving, though fortunately the books lined up behind her concealed their presence. Sullivan, a few inches taller and pressed against her, could see who had come into the room via a small space between some books on the next shelf up. He raised his finger to his lips, and she held her breath. He gave her a look to tell her to breathe or she'd pass out for sure, and India exhaled as quietly as she could.

Sullivan watched as Lord de Ros shuffled into the room, stumbling a bit and reeking of peppermint schnapps. He made his way over to the casket and carefully lifted the top portion, smiling down at the Dowager Countess of Edgefield.

"Hello, Mummy Louisa, you vicious old cow," he said, giggling. "Thought you'd get me in the end, did you? Figured you could keep your thumb on me for all time, eh? Well, I'll show you!" He pulled a silver flask out of his breast pocket and took a large swig. "You and Penny both… cold-hearted bitches. To think I was planning on putting arsenic in your tea tomorrow, but you solved that problem for me yourself, didn't you?" He laughed, doing a wobbly little jig, and closed the casket. He staggered out of the room, turning off the light again, and India almost collapsed with relief, then realized that her breasts were squeezed up against Sullivan's chest.

"Oh… " she whispered, looking up him.

She knew he was going to kiss her, and she touched his cheek, eager and willing, and the door opened again and the lights came on. She could have sworn she heard Sullivan say a swear word that also encapsulated what she wanted him to do to her, and turned her head, trying to see who had come in.

It was Lord Edgefield. He tiptoed across the room and gently lifted the top portion of the coffin lid. "Hello, Mummy," he said, his voice breaking. "It's me... your little Ivory baby!"

Sullivan put his hand over India's mouth to cover her laughter, and she could tell he was struggling to maintain his own self-control.

"Oh, Mummy… I can't believe that I'm never gonna have another one of your hugs!" Edgefield said, his grief genuine. He cupped his ear and leaned forward. "What's that, Mummy? You want to give me just… just one more hug?"

Sullivan and India both watched in utter amazement as Edgefield lifted his mother's upper torso and hugged her, weeping. When he finally settled her back on the pillow, he set about fixing her hair. "I'm sorry I mussed your hair, Mummy," he said. Once he was satisfied it was back to rights, he settled the lid back down again, stood for a moment of quiet reflection, then slowly crept out, turning the light off.

"Well, that beats the St. Mary's Nativity play by a country mile," India said, looking up at him.

He touched her cheek, his fingers tracing along her jawline to her chin, lifting her face up, and she slipped her hands up to his shoulders. He kissed her, applying only a little pressure to get her to open her mouth, and India wreathed her arms around his neck, kissing him back. She gasped softly when he undid the sash around her waist and opened the front of the silk robe, and she moaned as his hands moved up to cup her breasts. He was kissing her neck, making her knees turn to jelly, and then he suddenly stopped, releasing her. Whimpering, she opened her eyes and realized that the lights in the office were on again. Aroused and irritated, India looked back over her shoulder to see Lady Penelope coming in.

Now I really hate that snotty cow, she thought angrily as Lady Penelope lifted the lid of the coffin and peered down at her mother's body.

"Don't worry, Mummy. Our little secret is safe with me. I won't tell a soul." She smiled and closed the lid again, giggled, and left the room, turning off the lights.

"What the hell is with these people?" he asked. "They're like the bloody Borgias!"

India was trying to get her brain working again, and was bereft when he cautiously pushed, causing the bookcase to swing open. She sighed as he gently pulled her out of the tiny hiding spot, snatched the fallen file from the floor and moved the bookcase back into place. "Come on. We need to get out of here." He looked down at the file. "Whatever I find in here won't be admissible in Court, India… but at least it's giving us some useful clues."

"Is… is that all you want to talk about now?" she asked.

His expression softened. "No. But we can't very well go back to one of our rooms to continue… that," he said, nodding back at the bookcase.

She chewed on her lower lip as Sullivan went to the door, cracking it open slightly and peeking out. "Coast is clear. Come on."

"Why not?" she asked.

"India… "

"Are you telling me," she asked him, keeping her voice at as low a whisper as her turbulent emotions would allow, "That you can just put what just happened aside and go back to being Inspector Sullivan… all metal parts and ice? Just like that?"

"No. What I'm telling you is that there is simply no way in _hell_ I'm going to make love to you behind a bleeding bookcase, India! I need more space!"

She blushed pink, and gasped softly when he pulled her to him for one last, deep kiss that she felt all the way to her toes. When he set her back a little, she stood still, then realized her robe was still open. Blushing even pinker, she pulled the robe closed and held the top together with her hand. "So you… you do… want… "

"What, do you think I'm crazy? Of course I want you. For God's sake, I've wanted you since you were sixteen." He rubbed his face. "Good night, India. We'll leave before dawn." He backed away, then turned and left quickly. She sighed, pushing her flyaway hair back from her face, then sighed and headed back to Queen Bess's den of sin. Inside the room, which was nicely warmed by the fire, she removed the robe and climbed into bed. She sighed, her body still tingling from his touch, rolled over onto her side and was soon asleep, visions of a tuxedoed detective inspector dancing in her head.


	11. Chapter 11

This might be going toward T rating. I don't write sex scenes. Just not my bag.

Happy New Year!

* * *

The first thing that India was aware of, on waking up, was the color red.

She was momentarily confused, as her bedroom at Applecross was painted a soft mauve, with cream accents. She stared up at the scarlet canopy of the bed, remembered, and sighed. Glancing out the window, she saw the first shades of light and exhaled in relief—she had not overslept. She scrambled out of bed and dressed as quickly as she could, wishing she had brought along a pair of flat shoes. She also wished Sullivan had given in to temptation and gone ahead and just taken her, right there behind that bookcase in Lord Edgefield's office.

But he was an honorable man, she thought as she checked herself in the mirror. She smiled, thinking of what he had said to her last night—that he needed room. She knew she did, actually. Preferably a room with a king-sized bed, but if a simple cot was all that was available, she was fine with that, too. Quickly, she finger-combed her hair, put it back up into a casual twist and tied it with a ribbon, and slipped out of the room.

"I see you're eager to get out of here, too," Sullivan, nearly making her scream in surprise. He was leaning against the wall, opposite her door, waiting.

Once she had collected herself and caught her breath, she nodded. "Very much so. I won't have my boys wake up and not find me at home."

"Right. Come on, then. No one's awake yet. We'll have to find our coats ourselves an—" He was stopped by India kissing him, and he didn't resist. He gently pushed her against the wall and slipped his hands down to her hips, lifting her up just a little, so that her body was molded perfectly against his own, but his common sense had to prevail, even if it killed him. "Not here, India."

"It would very fun," she whispered, kissing along the line of his jaw. "The possibility of being discovered… "

"Why does it not surprise me to find that you're rather uninhibited?" he asked, stepping back. She sighed, knowing that she was courting scandal by being so bold.

"I suppose I'll have to show you just how uninhibited I am behind closed doors," she said, and tiptoed away, down the hall and toward the stairs. He followed, struggling to keep himself under tight control. They managed to be completely silent as they made their way downstairs, and while he went in search of the coats and India's little black clutch purse, she scrabbled about for a piece of paper and a pen to write out a polite thank you note and explanation for leaving so soon. When he returned, she placed the note under a little green glass egg on a table by the door, and he helped her into her coat.

It was still almost dark, and very cold, and India yawned. "I'll be glad to be in my own bed again, that's for sure," she said as they made their way out to the car. "The Queen's room was like a French cathouse, frankly. Not my style at all."

"Which Queen?"

"Elizabeth the first."

"I never really believed she was a virgin all her life," Sullivan said, brushing a dusting of snow off the bonnet of the car and lifting it open. He reapplied the battery cable, then got inside and tested the car to see if it was in working order. It started right up, and India closed the bonnet for him and got in, shivering in the cold.

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, for one thing, she was a Tudor, so she had the morals of a maggot. Secondly, she had that Lord Dudley lurking about… " he shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe I shouldn't say such things—she's dead and in her grave." He looked back at Boxwood Mansion. "I hope they can bring themselves to put the Dowager Countess of Edgefield in her grave."

India smiled. "Perhaps not. It seems that they all much left to say to her, and I don't think I can be in the same room with Lord Edgefield again and keep a straight face." Off his smirk, she giggled. "You know… last night, some of the ladies were talking about you. Bunty said you were 'dishy'."

"What the hell does that mean?" he asked, as he turned onto the road heading back towards Applecross.

"It means they think you're rather attractive, Inspector."

"Oh." He tugged uneasily at his collar. "Well… I'm… " he cleared his throat, glancing at her. "You'll just have to inform them that I'm off the market."

"You certainly are," she said softly. "And if Lady Penelope or Bunty tries anything with you, I'll have to become rather vindictive. If necessary, I can call on the services of my cousin in MI5."

He was silent for a moment, focusing on the road, then he cleared his throat. "Do you… erm… remember when I was trying to tell you about how I wanted something in the space that I happen to occupy? How I wanted to maybe add a few things?"

"Yes. You said you paid rent on a place with lots of space and no view," she said softly. "I gathered you weren't talking about your little cottage."

"Right. Exactly. Though the cottage is pretty damned small. Turn around and you knock over a table." He drew in his breath, and she knew he was going to have trouble with this, and so she waited, patient and hopeful. "That space… it's… well, one time you said I was heartless, and that's absolutely right because it's… not… mine. It belongs to you. It's been yours for almost ten years now." He swallowed nervously, keeping his eyes on the road, and India stared at him, astonished and delighted at once.

"Oh."

"I mean… I mean, if… that is, if you're just wanting this to be… sort of… er… casual… "

"Casual? Are you quite mad, Inspector? By no means will this be casual," she said softly. She clasped her hands together, trying to form her words carefully, knowing that his reserve covered a good bit of shyness and insecurity. The past hadn't helped much, either—regret and sorrow and a series of misunderstandings and silly squabbles had clouded things up quite a bit, but at least now she knew that they had a future. What it was, and what all it entailed, was impossible to know, but she couldn't imagine her future without him in it.

"Right. Then I guess we're… serious."

"Quite so, Inspector." She folded her hands demurely in her lap. "To that end, I could come out to your cottage tonight, after I put the boys to bed."

He glanced at her, and she smiled. "I… I only have a twin bed." His cheeks pinked and she felt her heart well up with excitement and newfound desire.

"It's sturdy, isn't it?" she asked softly.

"Uh… fairly so, I think."

"And you have a floor, right, and a wall?"

That made his eyes widen as he looked at her, and he turned his attention back to the road. "Yes. I do."

"Then that's all we need," she said softly. "Your cottage isn't attached to any other cottages? No thin walls or anything? I mean, I might be uninhibited, but I don't like waking the neighbors."

"No," he said, and she saw his hands were gripping the steering wheel rather tightly.

"I'll bring some wine and something for supper… I mean, dinner… and then… "

She desperately wanted to touch him, but she knew he would get a bit panicky. She smiled softly and put her head back, thinking of what her father had said about people and how they were either like horses or Holsteins. Some were skittish and full of energy, and even when well-trained and contained, were always on the verge of wildness. Others just stood around, chewing. She could never picture Alexander James Sullivan doing the latter at all, even in old age. She also knew that once she was alone with him tonight, his wildness might make an appearance, and she looked forward to seeing that side of him.

He turned into the drive to Applecross and stopped at the door. He scrambled out and went around to her side, helping her out. She slipped her hands up to his shoulders, and he kissed her, making her moan as he pulled her into his arms. She nibbled lightly on his lip, teasing him with just a precursor of just what lay in store, and he pulled away reluctantly. "I… I should go."

"Do you have to? You could stay for breakfast at least," she said softly.

"India, if I stayed for breakfast, we'd… end up… " he swallowed, glancing at the house. "You have your little boys in there, and I don't think they would really understand. And if they found us together like that… "

She sighed. "Right. We do have to be very discreet, don't we?"

"For their sake mostly, mine a little, and yours a great deal. I wouldn't be able to bear it if people talked about you, India. You're a young widow with two small children, and you were married to a prince. Besides that, I'll be considered a major downgrade in quality… "

"Don't you ever say that again, Alexander Sullivan!" she scolded gently. "You, sir, are quality through and through and if anyone ever says otherwise, I'll feed them poisoned apples."

She loved that half-smile of his, that brought up that adorable little dimple at the corner of his mouth. She stood on her toes and kissed the dimple, then kissed him again, her hands on his chest, sighing softly into his mouth. He pulled her a little closer, and she wished with her whole heart that he would come on inside and take her to bed now. But discretion and responsibility had to take precedence over personal desires, at least for now.

"So… um… what time… ?"

"I'm afraid it will be after dark," she said. "I put the boys to bed at nine, and I'll have to wait until my brothers go to bed."

He sighed. "So it could be really late."

"Not really. My brothers are usually early to bed."

He looked down, and she touched his cheek. When he finally looked at her again, she saw hunger in his eyes, and something thrillingly dangerous. It made her tingle all over, particularly in what her mother called her 'naughty parts', and she prayed that only a few hours separated them now, rather than forces beyond their control. "So you'll have to sneak out."

"Yes. And try to slip back home before light."

"I suppose sooner or later we'll have to… "

"Tell everyone." She kissed him lightly, and he let her go. "And you can be sure that I will not be ashamed of it, Alexander." She went up the steps to her house and turned back to watch him get in the car. She caught his brief, almost shy smile and sighed, leaning back against the door. She would have to see to it that she was properly prepared tonight: that meant a look through her medicine cabinet.

The house was still quiet when she let herself in, and she slipped silently upstairs. A quick change into her thick cotton pajamas, a bit of feminine maintenance and a run through her hair with her brush and she was soon back in bed, shivering a bit under the blankets, knowing her sons would be bounding into the room like Tigger on a sugar high, prying her eyes open and demanding she come downstairs to open packages.

She curled up, sighing softly. If things went right, tonight she would be receiving a gift almost ten years in the making.

* * *

"Mrs. Willis, it was really not the right thing to do, kidnapping those dogs," Sullivan told the old woman, whose sea lion-like face was flushed with embarrassment. "You're fortunate the Ridgleys aren't pressing charges or you could be facing prison time."

"They're neglectful!" she railed at him. "Those dogs don't even want to go back home now. I fed them proper meals and treats, and now they both sit on command and don't bark at all!"

He sighed, rubbing his face. "Just the same, ma'am, they were not yours to take."

"Poor little Angus and Hamish." She daubed her eyes with a handkerchief.

"I believe their names are Nick and Jack, Mrs. Willis."

"What sort of names are those for Westies?" she countered.

"I didn't name them!" Sullivan snapped. She looked offended, and he sighed, exhausted. "All right. I'm going to have to charge you with trespassing, theft of private property and… " he looked down at the page, where he had drawn a sea lion that looked far too much like Winston Churchill. "… er… yes, that's pretty much it. You'll be on parole for a few months, and you'll likely pay a fine." He quickly redid another document, checking off the charges against her, and handed it to her. "That's your desk ticket—you'll appear on the date noted, on time, and the Justice of the Peace will decide what sort of fine will be leveled."

Mrs. Willis rose from her seat and left, looking very put out. He wrote out a note to give to the JP, suggesting that perhaps Mrs. Willis and the Ridgleys could work out joint custody or visitation rights, and went out into the bullpen. He handed the note to Wells, who added it to the Westienapping file and set it to be taken out to the local courthouse.

"Have a good Christmas, sir?" Barnstable asked, sipping a cup of hot wassail. He looked at the pot steaming on the tiny burner and almost laughed. India had sent the pot out from Applecross at lunchtime, with a note for everyone at the constabulary to enjoy its contents. The hot cider, honey and pineapple juice mixture (with nutmeg and cinnamon) was delicious and had warmed everyone in the constabulary to their bones.

"It wasn't bad." He thought of the file he had locked in his drawer and frowned a little. He had obtained it illegally, and if anyone found out he had stolen it, he could face some very serious charges. But if it led to the capture of whoever had broken into India's house, and ultimately led to the discovery of whatever was buried underground at Applecross, then he could live with the consequences. India's safety, and the safety of her sons made everything else inconsequential.

Right now, his mind was focused on other, more temporal matters—like the very strong possibility that he was going to share a bed with India tonight, and that maybe… just maybe… she loved him, too. If she didn't, and only wanted him for sex… well, that would suit him for only so long, and he knew she wasn't that kind of woman anyway. He knew she was the home and hearth type, regardless of her status in the world, and he wasn't interested in just a liaison—he wanted a family some day, despite his own miserable upbringing.

He went into his office and closed the door, forcing himself to focus on work. Christmas Day or not, he had case files to read over and a few phone calls to make. He glanced at the phone, wondering if he should call India—just to check on her, and make sure all was well. A follow-up, courtesy call, he could claim if asked, and he could ask her what she was wearing and let his all-too-vivid imagination run with it…

He clenched his fists and resisted, snatching up a file about a case regarding the murder of an overly excitable chef over… a recipe for _crab patties_?

"Yech," he muttered, rubbing his eyes, and started reading.

* * *

"Spent the night at Boxwood, eh?" Lachlan chewed on his French toast, closing his eyes at the wondrous combination of fried bread, eggs, and maple syrup. He figured he had gained about ten pounds since arriving at Applecross. A stay at a hotel in London for a few days would fix that, he was sure.

"The car wouldn't start," India said. She hadn't been able to find the powdered sugar, to apply to the French toast, but her brothers didn't care. They were already in a breakfast-induced daze. "And we made some interesting discoveries."

"Oh?" Duncan snatched another two pieces of toast from the platter and poured some syrup on them. Bacon was included, and he relished eating the 'floppy' kind his sister made.

"Yes." She gave him a cool look, and he shrugged and continued eating. "Well, some renovations were done to this place in 1892 and there are indeed passageways underground leading out to that mysterious cairn, and another that leads to the northeastern corner of the property. God only knows what they've got hidden under here."

"Like… bars of gold bullion and missing Da Vinci paintings?" Duncan offered, and she laughed.

"That would be interesting, but it seems doubtful it's anything that spectacular. And if it's something stolen, I'll be obligated to return it all to whoever owned it."

Lachlan appeared in the doorway with his two nephews, looking exhausted. "You could keep London lit up for a month on the energy of these two little outlaws."

Her sons made a noisy beeline to the table and clambered into their chairs, eager for their French toast and bacon. They had been pleased with their gifts: brand new leather cowboy boots, custom made in Fort Worth, and had insisted on testing their gifts' winter-worthiness as soon as they were properly kitted out in coats and gloves first.

"Well, you can't keep up that kind of energy without breakfast. Come on," India said, brushing snow out of her oldest son's hair. The boys clambered into their seats at the table, happily chattering with their uncles as India prepared French toast. "Not only that, but we discovered that the Earl of Edgefield's brother-in-law, Lord de Ros, was raised here at Applecross."

"Huh," Lachlan said between mouthfuls of bacon. "So what did Sullivan think of that?"

"He has a few theories. I'll just be glad when it's all figured out." She finally sat down with four of the men in her life and ate French toast, sunlight warming the little breakfast room. She glanced at the clock and forced herself to not think about her plans for the evening. As soon as the men all clattered back outside to construct a snowman, she went upstairs to dig through the closet in her bathroom, searching for the items she would need—the chemist in Kembleford would be closed, of course. She was relieved to find what she needed and slipped them into her little clutch, then headed back downstairs to prepare the afternoon meal. She was getting out sweet potatoes when the phone rang, and she rushed into the lounge to answer.

"Hello, India."

Her heart did an ecstatic little cartwheel and she had to sit down. "Hi."

"Just… er… calling to see if everything is okay at Applecross."

"Everything is peachy with a side of keen. And how are things at the Kembleford constabulary?"

"Keen, but not entirely peachy. We just arrested a man for trying to write his name in the snow."

"What's wrong with—oh. Right. Ew."

"He was somewhat intoxicated. Actually, he was three sheets to the wind and kept calling me Buford."

"That name just doesn't suit you."

"That's what I told him. I always figured I looked more like a Patrick or a Seamus."

"Oh, I disagree. I think you look like an Alexander." Dear God, she loved the sound of his voice, and the sound of him laughing made her soul just dance around for joy.

"So… er… what are you wearing?"

She looked down at herself. She was still in her cotton pajamas (blue, with white clouds) and a rather scruffy pink bathrobe. Hardly inspiring. She glanced towards the door, making sure no one was about. "A pink teddy, with tiny buttons on one side—easily undone, of course, and silk stockings with lace garter belts and silk straps."

He was silent for a moment, then he cleared his throat. "Thanks. I needed that. But what are you actually wearing?"

"Thick cotton PJs and a frumpy old robe, and my feet are in thick blue and white polka-dot socks."

"Practical," he said. She heard shuffling, a muffled "Give him some wassail—that'll sober him up" and finally he was back. There was a brief silence, and she heard the sound of the door clicking shut. "Just the same, though… I think I'd prefer the imaginary teddy."

"What makes you think it's imaginary, Inspector?" she asked silkily. "I'll show you tonight."

"Forget the teddy, India. Just wear a coat." He cleared his throat. "Good afternoon, Your Highness. I will keep you apprised of any developments regarding the break-in at your home. Happy Christmas."

"Oh, someone's in there?"

"Father Brown is here, actually, and he remains very interested in the matter of the break-in."

"Oh, well, then tell him I wish him a very Happy Christmas."

"Yes, of course. Thank you, Your Highness." He rang off, and India clasped the phone to her chest, eyes closed as she pondered his suggestion. She wanted to be bold, and that notion was not just bold but downright blatant.

She put the phone down in its cradle and sighed. She could definitely do blatant.

* * *

Father Brown eyed Sullivan, noting that the man didn't seem quite so stressed, despite clearly having gone without sleep for some time. He sat down in the guest's chair opposite the Inspector, hands on the handle of his umbrella, and waited until he rang off with the Princess von Altburg.

"The princess wishes you a very Happy Christmas, sir," Sullivan said.

"She is a delightful creature, isn't she? Warm and kind and very cheerful, and very pretty."

Sullivan's cheeks pinked slightly. "Yes. I suppose you could say that."

"The party last evening at Boxwood was very… entertaining."

Sullivan glanced down to his right, and he seemed to waver for a moment, then he unlocked a lower drawer and pulled out a file. "This is totally off the record, Father, and since I happened to obtain this file in a less-than-legal manner, I suppose I can share its contents with you—being confident you will speak with no one else about it, aside possibly from the Princess von Altburg."

Brown was more than a little surprised to hear Sullivan admit to stealing something, but for now, he would put that aside. It wasn't as though the man was going to come to St Mary's for confession. No more than he would come tomorrow to seek absolution for bedding the princess. Brown had heard the end of Sullivan's conversation with the princess from outside the door, and while he didn't approve of such things, he would not begrudge Sullivan or India their happiness—he was certain they were a matched set, differing backgrounds, and social classes be damned.

The priest perused the file slowly, while Sullivan waited. When he got to the last page and closed the file, he looked up at the detective, eyebrows up. "So you believe Lord de Ros might be involved?"

"He was raised at Applecross, until 1906, at least, and I heard him telling India that his family had made renovations to the house and property in 1892. A crew of workmen digging tunnels is hard to miss, even for a young child."

"Quite true. My theory is that Mr. Scroggins and his compatriot were given the task of ruining the wall in the library to get the police to focus on the break-in, not on whatever was going on at the far northeastern end of the property."

"Exactly," Sullivan said. "But the snow is rather deep now, so it'll be a bitch… " He paused. "Sorry. A… rather hard task to get into the tunnel from the entryway noted here," he said, opening the file to the page showing the marks indicating where the entryways were. "Scroggins must have gotten in just before the blizzard, when there wasn't much snow out there, and became trapped."

"Poor man must have been starving."

"He praised the princess's cooking, and weeps at every meal now in the cells."

"I can believe that. I'm ruined for British cooking now myself. So you believe that Lord de Ros sent those men? He must have something very important stashed in those tunnels, to go to such trouble."

"As soon as we can do a bit of digging to the entry hatch, I'm going to send constables down into the passageway from the library and see what they can find. Considering the floors are stone, I'm guessing that whatever is hidden in these rooms isn't just old iron bedsteads and a few family knickknacks. They wanted those items to be preserved."

Father Brown frowned, thinking. "During the war, the Germans carefully selected places where water and humidity could do the least amount of damage to the items they confiscated—remember Goering's collections of looted paintings and other art? He and his fellow criminals had them stored in salt mines and in wine cellars and the like, all over Germany."

"Right." Sullivan tapped his fountain pen on the page showing the map of the estate. "Besides which… we overheard some rather interesting things last night. At Boxwood, that is. Lady Penelope said… " He paused, sitting back in his chair, then sighed, loosened his tie, and leaned forward. "Her mother died yesterday morning and they had her body in a casket in Lord Edgefield's office."

Father Brown stared at him, momentarily speechless. "She… died?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"She was a nominal Protestant, for one thing, and the guest list was already confirmed. They couldn't cancel a Christmas party due to a death in the family."

"Good heavens, sometimes it's embarrassing to be British. But please, go on, Inspector."

"Well… anyway… Lady Penelope said something to her mother's… er… corpse about their 'little secret' and Lord de Ros had some rather unpleasant things to say about having planned to poison her. He apparently isn't a big fan of Lady Penelope's either, so that has me a tad concerned, too."

"What of Lord Edgefield?"

"Oh, we needn't worry about him being involved in any of this. He's a good boy who loves his Mummy." Sullivan set his pen down, neatly, beside his appointment book. "Just remember—this part of the investigation is entirely off the record, Father, and you will say nothing to anyone about what I've told you."

"Certainly."

"But… er… perhaps you could do a bit more research on the de Ros family. They had to sell Applecross in 1906, but I don't know why except that Lord Edgefield mentioned they 'tired easily'. The sight of you looking through the archives wouldn't be anything amiss compared to me or a bunch of constables fannying about over there. We don't want de Ros alerted in any way."

"I wasn't able to get out to the archives, because of the blizzard… " Brown said, standing up.

"Never mind. If I can get into the tunnels and work my way out to the entry hatch, we won't need to dig through the snow at all, so perhaps we won't need to have anyone make a 'surprise discovery' out there. It's just going to take time. If the rooms are sealed off, then I wonder if there's another, unmarked passageway."

"Right." Brown mulled this over carefully, then brightened. "I suppose the little princes could find the hatch. If guided in the right direction, that is."

Sullivan's mouth quirked and he looked down at the file, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You know, those two boys are quite charming. Well-mannered and good-natured, but as mischievous as you'd want a boy to be."

Sullivan nodded absently.

"They have their uncles, of course, but they would still profit immensely from having a father. Particularly a good man, and maybe some more siblings."

That made Sullivan look up, and Brown only smiled. He touched the brim of his hat and shuffled out, and Sullivan sat down, pondering.

It was a matter he was almost afraid to think about but continually lingered in the back of his mind just the same. If his future was with India—and he prayed that it was—it was also with her sons and, God help him, maybe even a few children of their own between them. He wanted a family, but he was secretly terrified that he wouldn't be good at it at all. He knew he loved India, but he was worried that that might not be enough.

* * *

India was pleased with her turkey and dressing, glad it had all come out as well as it did, considering how distracted she was. Fantasizing about Sullivan was not going to help her create a memorable meal, at this rate. She snatched up the pot of green beans, properly buttered and warmed on the burner, and poured them into the old white bowl she had inherited from her Hungarian grandmother. That poor woman was also no cook, and the bowl was made of alabaster and was probably three hundred years old—India wondered what she would think of it being used to serve Southern-style green beans.

The doorbell rang, and she looked worriedly at the clock. It was five, and as much as she wished Sullivan would come to her house tonight, it would take a great deal of subterfuge and even some sleight-of-hand to get him upstairs and into her bedroom. If he was here for that, she was willing to play that game, but…

Wiping her hands, she went out to the door and was stunned to see David there. "Merry Christmas, baby sister!" he said. "I've come to give you a present."

"Oh… um… " She peered around him and only saw his car. No relatives were milling about or hiding in the trees, so she looked at him, confused.

"Haven't guessed yet, huh? Well, I figured that you might want a day or so alone here at Applecross, unpacking and settling things about the way you like, without Dunk and Link and your boys underfoot. I mean, I know you love them more than your Louis Vuitton luggage, but you love your brothers even more when they're a few miles away, and your boys can do without a bunch of coddling for a day or two. So… how about it? I'll take them all off your hands 'til Monday afternoon. We're heading to Paris Tuesday morning, to stay 'til New Year's, and I suspect our brothers will come back here, since they can't stand Parisians, and I'll bring them back here before we leave."

She wanted to hug David. "I'm sure… I mean, come in before you freeze!" She stepped aside, and David shuffled in, scraping snow off his boots. When Max and Sebastian came rushing downstairs, he hugged them both and asked to see their Christmas presents, and the boys eagerly led him into the lounge. Lachlan and Duncan both appeared moments later, carrying cords of firewood. Gifts were examined and exclaimed over, then everyone piled into the breakfast room to eat dinner. Delicious, roasted turkey, leftover spiral ham, cornbread dressing, green beans, sweet potato casserole and desserts of fruit salad, pumpkin and chocolate pies completed the meal. Everyone ate their fill and relaxed afterward for coffee and wassail.

While India struggled to contain her growing excitement, she stayed in the kitchen, putting away leftovers. Her sons went back upstairs to begin collecting necessary items for their visit to Errington (namely toys and their footballs), and her brothers filled David in on the developments regarding the break-in at Applecross. When India went upstairs to pack suitcases for the boys, Duncan leaned in, glancing at the door before he spoke.

"India's gotten involved… rather deeply, I think… with that Inspector Sullivan."

"Again? Huh." David sat back, full of incomparably wonderful pork chops.

"What do you mean, _again_?"

"Well, she and Sullivan have a history. But it's not our business, Dunk. It's her life, and we all know Sullivan's a stand-up kind of fellow. He'll do right by her."

"He'd damned well better. I won't have my sister waddling up the aisle at her wedding!" Lachlan said.

"If it comes to that, then that's what will have to happen—he'd have to marry her, but then again I suspect a wedding is in the offing, baby or not. I wouldn't approve any more of a shot-gun wedding than you would, if that did happen, but either way, I think they suit each other pretty well." He lit a cheroot and inhaled slowly.

"And now you're takin' all of us out to Errington, leavin' her here all alone, and you can bet Sullivan'll be here as soon as we pull out of the driveway, and he'll be on her like a chicken on a June bug!" Lachlan said, a little agitated.

"And you aren't all over Margarita Salinas whenever she's alone?" David asked, raising an eyebrow. "As if I don't know why you visit the Chisos range as often as you do. It sure isn't for the charming weather."

Lachlan paled slightly. "That's… different."

"Maybe, though I can't honestly see how. But India isn't some little mountain maiden, like your Margarita—though I'm gonna hazard a guess that she's not a _maiden_ anymore. India's a grown woman and she's free to do as she pleases."

"She may be a grown woman but she's still our sister!" Duncan hissed.

"Oh, stop bein' a prig. This is the real world we're livin' in," David countered. "I won't say I'm doin' backflips over the thought of my sister sleeping… I mean… well, doing… that kind of thing while yet unchurched, but she's of age and we don't own her. We have to keep our opinions to ourselves." He took another bite of chocolate pie and sighed. "I'll tell you what, though—if Sullivan doesn't marry her 'cause he loves her, he'd be a fool not to marry her for the food."

India came into the kitchen just then, looking a little harried, and her cheeks were flushed. The brothers looked at each other, and finally, David stood. "Well, Indigo, that was a spectacular meal, as usual—I swear, you could make a good meal out of a bone's smell. Thank you… it's my second Christmas dinner of the day, actually. Clare set a fine table, too—I know I've gained about ten pounds today alone."

"You're welcome," she said softly. "Um… I'm very… well, not grateful. I mean, I'll miss my babies terribly, but… um… I do want to get things sorted around here."

"And you have your pistol, right? The little Luger Fritz gave you on your first wedding anniversary?"

"Yes, firearms are the traditional first wedding anniversary gift, along with paper and calfskin wrist restraints," Duncan said, standing and pushing his chair in. "I'll go round up the boys. Come on, Lock. I need reinforcements."

"Of course I have the pistol, and bullets, too," India said, exasperated. "I'm also a better shot than either of you wallies."

"Round up the boys?" Lachlan said, irritated. "You're joking, right? Those two… it's like herding chickens. Get hold of one, and the other breaks out and heads for high country… " The two brothers trailed out of the kitchen, bickering. India began clearing away the dishes, but David shooed her away and did it for her, then gently directed her to sit down. He poured her a cup of coffee, then set to washing the rest of the dishes.

"You'll be all right here, all alone?" he asked her, once the kitchen was cleaned properly. He sat down opposite her. Her blush told him all he needed to know, and perhaps more than he really wanted to know.

"I suppose so," she answered softly. "Luger, bullets… "

"Tall, rather grumpy policeman?"

At her blush, he smiled. "India… it's your life. I won't see you unhappy. If you think he's the one, and that he's the sort to stick around, then I damned sure won't stand in the way." He sipped his own coffee and saw her tremble a little.

"I love him, David. I can't help it. I never stopped loving him."

"Nothing wrong with that. But does he love you?"

"I flatter myself in thinking he does. He's not a man of many words, but… actions… "

"Yeah, I know, but I've been married long enough to know that women like to hear it every now and then." He sighed. "I'm only your brother. I'm not Papa, and even if he were alive, he still would have no say in the matter, at least not legally. But I think even he would like Sullivan. I know I do, and so do your brothers, and I think your boys will like him, too."

"That's what scares me most, David," she said softly. "All the 'what ifs'. What if they don't like each other? What if he feels… I mean, he already has the notion that he'd be a downgrade from Fritz… "

David laughed. "Seriously? Well, remember how Mother reacted to Clare? A wildcatter's daughter from Pecos, marrying a Duke? She liked to have had a fit and seemed to have forgotten that she had to prove her own mettle to Granny, who wasn't afraid to point out that her grandfather bit a man's finger off during a brawl, while Mother's own kin just managed to marry up. But you know, I think your Sullivan is cut from the same sort of cloth as Clare—hard as nails and twice as tough, with a heart as big as all Texas, and if he loves you, then it won't make a damned bit of difference where he came from." He stood up and India sighed and stood as well. He took her empty cup, rinsed it in the sink and went back to his sister, embracing her warmly. "You listen here. Let things happen as they may, trust your own instincts, and if Sullivan hurts you, then your brothers and I will see to it that he's never seen or heard from again. Deal?"

She smiled, blushing even pinker. "Deal."

"Now. We gotta go. I have the onerous task of stuffing your sons and your dotty-minded brothers into my car." He left, and she heard stomping upstairs, yelling, a loud bang and arguing. She went out to the foyer and hugged and kissed her sons and made sure they had clothes and shoes for the weekend, kissed her brothers goodbye and watched them drive away. As soon as she couldn't see them anymore, she turned and rushed into the lounge and grabbed the phone.

* * *

Sullivan looked at the clock. It was almost four-thirty. Another half-hour and he could go home and sit around waiting, working himself into a lather. Her brothers and sons were with her at Applecross, so there was no way he could just go out there…

His phone rang, nearly sending him up to the light fixture, and he snatched it up. "Sullivan."

"Alex?"

"India? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. David has come and taken my brothers and my sons to Errington. They'll be staying until Monday afternoon!"

Had Sullivan not been a carefully contained man, fully in charge of his emotions, he would have let out a whoop. But instead he reined himself in and cleared his throat—if he had been heard whooping, he'd have a small herd of constables in his office. "I see."

"They're already gone, and I have the necessary items."

That stopped him, and he stared at the phone for a moment, brow furrowed. "Items?"

"To prevent accidents." She cleared her throat. "Not that I would regard it as an accident, really, because I don't regard people as accidents. I mean, it would be us having an accident… oh, God, that just didn't come out right. But… but… um… I never had trouble with… um… you know…"

Oh. He cleared his throat. French bills, as they had called them during his Army days. "Conception."

"Right," she said, sounding a little breathless.

He looked at the clock again, feeling feverish. "That's something we'll need to talk about… uh… later," he said, telling himself that a watched clock never turned. Every second now seemed like an eternity.

"Right." She was quiet for several moments, and he momentarily believed she had rung off. "I want to have more children, Alex. But… only… "

"Under the right circumstances."

"Yes," she said softly.

"So do I." He glanced up and saw Barnstable standing there, holding up a file. Sullivan shoved the Applecross file into the drawer and locked it quickly. "I'll see what I can do about that. I'm sure it's easy enough to resolve, and for now, it's probably nothing to worry about."

India said goodbye, her voice only a little shaky, and he rang off. Barnstable handed him the file and he opened it, barely able to remember how to read. "Oh. Right. Wharncliffe. Total nutter, that man. What'd he do this time?"

"He's back to flashing folks."

"In this weather?!"

"Yes. Afraid so. He went from door to door."

"On bloody Christmas morning?! How many?"

"Six. I've interviewed three of them, and they couldn't really give good a description except that he really appreciated the tea and Christmas cake."

Sullivan rubbed his face. "He does this every Christmas! He gets free cake every year, and I remember last year one of his victims invited him back for dinner!"

Twenty-nine minutes. He looked at the clock, one minute ticking by in slow motion. "All right. You have him in the cell?"

"He's in the gentlemen's loo right now."

The lights in the station dimmed then, and Sullivan looked around, bewildered. Just then, Goodfellow burst into the room. "Sir! Wharncliffe just electrocuted himself!"

"Bloody hell!" Sullivan snapped, scrambling to his feet and racing out of the room, Goodfellow and Barnstable in his wake.

The flasher was lying on the floor of the men's room, not responding, and Sullivan scrambled down into the tiny space, undoing the top buttons of the man's coat (the only thing he was wearing… in this weather!) and tried the technique he had read about in some obscure medical manual—mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and chest compressions. While Goodfellow and Barnstable stood by, looking a little startled as Sullivan performed heroic and rather unpleasant measures at lifesaving, Wharncliffe began twitching, then sat up, almost knocking Sullivan over. "I'm supposed to be dead! Why, why, oh God, why won't You let me die?!"

"If I weren't a policeman, you would be dead!" Sullivan growled at him. "Now get up, you Christmas cake mooching git!"

As the suicidal flasher was helped to his feet, Sullivan looked up at the lightbulb—Wharncliffe had grabbed it, took off his shoe and dipped his foot in the toilet bowl. "Well, there's a way to end Christmas with a bang."

* * *

India searched through her closet for her pink negligee, but couldn't find the damned thing. She was becoming frantic when she found her silk Japanese kimono jacket—it was long, light blue, and decorated with beautiful swallows and other little birds. She undressed quickly and pulled it on, closing it carefully with a silk cord around her waist. She started to put her hair up but remembered that he had always liked it down around her shoulders. She brushed it carefully and tied it back with an easy-to-remove ribbon, then slipped back downstairs, barefooted but not at all cold.

For some reason, she felt more nervous now than she had on her wedding night. She and Fritz had enjoyed a relatively healthy physical relationship, despite his frequent illnesses, but it had been rather… conventional. Not that that had bothered her in any way, and she had come to love him very dearly. The births of their sons had deepened the bond between them and created a mature, loving and mutually satisfying union, and India was forever grateful to Fritz for having been a gentle and considerate lover. But just before her husband had died, she had been browsing in a bookstore in Paris and came across a book that described some sexual positions and techniques that should have scandalized her. Instead, it had intrigued her, which she supposed did scandalize her.

She regretted not having purchased the book. Now, sitting in her living room, looking at the clock and worrying that the phone would ring and he would tell her he couldn't come because some idiot had gone and murdered somebody, she wished she had it out and had earmarked the parts (with graphic drawings, even!) that interested her. There had been a few ideas in that book that she had thought about and even dreamed about, and in the past few nights those dreams had become rather… vivid. Before her sons had come bounding into her room this morning, one such dream had made her hot all over, and the man doing those things to her had not been Fritz at all. No, indeed, the lover of her fantasy had been the tall, dark-haired, rather dour but ever-so-sexy detective who still owned her heart.

Agitated and anxious, India got up and banked the fire, and was about to sit again when the doorbell rang. She determinedly composed herself and went out to answer, peeking through the glass and feeling her heart jumping around in her chest when she saw it was indeed Sullivan.

She opened the door, ready to purr out a hello, but he was kissing her before she could even form the word. She wreathed her arms around his neck and he picked her up and carried her back into the foyer, kicking the door shut behind him.

"I sped all the way here," he said. "Probably ought to arrest myself," he said as he pulled her into the lounge. India was frantically undoing the buttons on his shirt, tried to undo his tie but almost choked him, and he loosened it himself and pulled it off over his head. He then pulled her roughly to him, kissing her hard and making her moan as he undid the ribbon in her hair.

"Only if I can put the cuffs on you," she whispered against his mouth, and that made him look at her for a moment, eyebrows up. Any questions he may have had melted away when she undid the silk cord around her waist and let the silk robe slide off her body. He surprised her then by pushing her onto the couch, so that she was sitting, and from then on all she could do was let him do something to her that she hadn't even read about in that book in Paris.

* * *

Sullivan was awakened by the scent of frying bacon.

For a moment, he thought he was back in his lonely bed at his dreary little cottage. But as he reoriented himself, he found he was in a large room with mauve and white walls and pretty chintz decorations. The sheets were high-count cotton, also a soft mauve color. Definitely not something one would find in any place where he slept regularly.

Also, the bed was king-sized and very comfortable, with a canopy and mosquito netting. India was clearly into going all-out, bedroom décor-wise. That didn't bother him, though—the master suite of any house was always up to the woman to decorate, after all.

She had laid his shirt and trousers across the foot of the bed, and he pulled them on, leaving his shirt unbuttoned, before heading downstairs. He followed his nose into the kitchen and paused in the doorway, watching her as she demonstrated her genius at the stove.

God Almighty, she was beautiful. Sexy, sweet, imaginative, uninhibited, sensual, naughty, delightful, shy, bold, intriguing, open, luscious, delicate, strong… daring. When she had made the comment about cuffing him, he had been more than a little surprised, and when she had suggested it again when they had gone upstairs to her bed, he had surprised her by saying he wasn't above giving that kind of thing a try, and what had followed had been… earth-shattering. Giving her control had been a testament to how much he trusted her, and she had rewarded him in ways he hadn't thought possible. Hell, they might not even be legal, but he'd be damned if he ever reported her…

"Good morning."

He had been lost in his thoughts and didn't notice that she had seen him.

"Oh. Hi."

"You're a heavy sleeper," she said with a smile. "But I suppose you need a bit of rest. I know I didn't let you sleep at all last night." She placed a plate of bacon, fried eggs and shredded potato hash (or 'home fries', as she called them) on the table. He sat down, and she leaned in and gave him a long, sweet kiss. He got a nice view of her lovely breasts under her robe but restrained himself from making ungentlemanly grabs during breakfast. He was thus surprised and delighted when she slipped the robe off and settled into his lap, straddling his hips. She began nibbling lightly along his jawline to his neck.

"Food and sex at the same time, India?"

"Do I hear objections, Inspector?"

"Certainly not."

"Then consider me your dessert."

* * *

As night fell, they lay on the couch, spooning and watching the fire. India stirred slightly and sighed, snuggling back against him.

"India… "

"Hm?"

"You know… you know that I love you, right?"

"I don't think I would have gone to bed with you if I wasn't sure of it."

"Or suggested all those things… " he said, tracing his finger around her belly button. "Where'd you learn about that… particular… er… little… ?"

She giggled. "Well… I found this book in a shop in Paris. I just wish I had bought it, but I was… well… "

"A bit too shy?"

"I suppose that was why. I mean, I was married to Fritz then and... well, this isn't the time to discuss him, I suppose." She rolled over, sliding her leg over his hip and hugging him tightly. "But I remembered a few things from it, and then I just… came up with a few of my own. And by the way, Inspector… I happen to love you with my whole heart."

She watched his hazel eyes turn green, and she smiled as he kissed and embraced her, never wanting to let go, and pulled the blanket up, making sure she was properly warm. India sighed happily, wishing that the world would not intrude on them but knowing full well this idyll could not last forever. "Then I suppose we're lovers."

"That's the right term, I suppose," he said sleepily. "Boyfriend and girlfriend don't work… too old and cranky, on my part… " He yawned, and she brushed her fingers through his hair, smiling. She had fed him three good meals, in between lovemaking, and supper had been a delicious turkey casserole. As usual, turkey was having a soporific effect on him, and India cuddled him as he drifted off. Tomorrow was Monday, and in the afternoon her brothers and sons would be returning. He would have to return to town, and the mystery of the tunnels under Applecross remained to be solved.

She whispered a soft goodnight to him and rested her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Today and last night had been theirs. Tomorrow was soon to come, with its own troubles, and India's last thought, before drifting into a deep sleep, was that she was ready for whatever the future had to offer.


	12. Chapter 12

This one got really wordy...

* * *

Monday morning dawned cold and gloomy, with a sort of dreary mist hanging in the air. The temperature had dropped, and frost was forming on everything. Patterns of ice formed on the windows, and spread around the edges of the water fountain in front of the house. By daybreak, a light snow was finally falling, the sky gray and somber, and India didn't want to get up—not even to get the fires going in the lounge and in her sons' bedrooms.

They had gone back upstairs some time during the night and made slow, sleepy love in her bed. She woke to him asleep on top of her, his head on her belly, and she gently traced her fingers along the whorls of his ear and relished feeling his stubble tickling and chaffing her skin. When he stirred a little, she stroked his hair, wanting him to rest as much as possible, and she sighed when his breathing slowed again.

She wondered if anyone had ever coddled him. He had only revealed small bits of his childhood, and it had not been difficult, even to a sixteen-year old with no experience beyond her monied and secure world, to see that he had experienced very little unconditional love from anyone. He had no mother, and had avoided forming intimate relationships with women until he had met India. Sometimes, she wondered what might have happened if her mother hadn't learned of their romance—would she have gone to bed with him? If so, would she have confessed her age before or after? What would he have done?

Maybe the end of their affair, ten years ago, had been for the best. Life is, after all, what happens when other plans had been made, and India did not regret her life. She had not been dragged kicking and screaming to the altar, but had already liked and admired Fritz, and was proud to have been his wife, and even more honored to be instrumental in keeping his family line alive. Her tears before the wedding had been the end of pent-up emotion and sorrow—she had wanted so desperately to send a message to Sullivan, saying she was sorry, but she had had no idea where he was: he had vanished. The Metropolitan Police had told her he had requested reassignment elsewhere, and would not tell her where. Maybe that had been for the best, too.

She supposed she and Sullivan would have to discuss the possible consequence of becoming lovers. Pregnancy was not out of the question, regardless of safeguards taken, and even if that didn't happen, there was also the specter of scandal. However much she didn't care about class distinctions, society still did, and the daughter of a Duke, formerly married to a prince, sleeping with an Irish East End-bred police detective was fodder for the gossip sheets. She was perfectly aware of how horrible people could be, and that nasty things would be said about her and about Sullivan. She was prepared for such things, but he wasn't.

India was about to gently wake her lover and invite him to join her in the shower when she heard a car door slam shut outside. She sat up, gasping, and Sullivan rolled off her and stood by the bed, shivering. "What the hell… "

"Someone's here!" she said, scrambling out of bed, naked. "Oh my God, your clothes are still downstairs!"

Sullivan wrapped the sheet around himself and stood, still a bit groggy, and said nothing as she put on her silk robe. "Stay up here," she said quickly, and raced out of the room. He sat down on the bed, blinking, still a little disoriented. A few moments later, she returned, breathless and agitated, and threw his trousers, shirt, underclothes and one shoe at him. "I can't find the other shoe or your socks!" she said, frantic, and began picking up her discarded clothes from the floor.

He knew better than to tell her to calm down. He put his clothes on instead while she raced about, and he paused to appreciate the sight of her shedding her robe before she put on her underwear. She rushed to her vast closet/dressing room and searched about for a proper blouse and skirt. She emerged a moment later looking a little less flustered and fully clothed, which was regrettable, however nice she looked in a Christmasy green outfit.

The front door was opening, and Sullivan heard one of her brothers—he couldn't tell who was who yet—yelling "Indigo!" Soon, he heard the sound of her sons clattering into the house but, thankfully, not up the stairs. India grabbed Sullivan, turned him around and shoved him into the bathroom.

"I'm sorry!" she whispered. "Once… once I can get them in the kitchen, you can… um… leave… I'm so sorry… "

"It's all right."

"It's not! Those nitwits! They weren't due to come back 'til after lunch! Of course they'd be early! Lachlan was a week early being born, and Duncan was a month early! I could just kill them both! What a couple of bleeding wallies… they had better keep me away from my meat cleaver or I swear I'll… " She stalked out of the room, spewing furious invective, and Sullivan sat down on the edge of the bathtub, initially dismayed by the whole ridiculous situation, and then suddenly he found it utterly hilarious.

A few moments later, he heard India greeting her sons, exclaiming happily at seeing them again. Sullivan looked around the bathroom and wished there was something in the room to read, but he supposed he could wait. In the meantime, he could finish dressing. Locating his missing shoe, however, might prove a tad more tricky.

* * *

Lachlan and Duncan pondered the fact that there was no car parked out in front of the house besides India's own little coup. They considered checking the garage, but decided against it—if Sullivan was in the house somewhere, it was only sporting of them to let him escape unscathed. They herded their nephews into the mansion and looked around, glancing at Maximillian, who was holding Clare's gift to India: a white, extremely fuzzy Spitz puppy.

She came downstairs, and when she reached the landing she stopped, seeing the puppy. She exhaled and forced a smile to curve her mouth, but the brothers knew she was not delighted to have a dog. However, her boys had been begging for one for almost a year now, and as they took such good care of their ponies, a dog was a natural reward. The puppy wriggled out of Maximillian's arms and made a beeline for India's feet.

"So we have a dog now," she said, gently nudging the puppy away before he could ruin her slippers.

"Clare said that he's her means of thanking you for the geranium."

India huffed. "Well. So what have you named him?" she asked her sons. For her sons' sake, she hoped the puppy lasted longer than any pot of geraniums that came under poor Clare's care.

"Snoozy!"

The puppy did not look at all 'snoozy'. Instead, he was a bundle of energy, losing interest in her feet and bouncing into the living room. A few moments later, he was growling and attacking a size 10 man's shoe, which he had dragged out from under the sofa. Everyone stared down at the shoe, which was holding up well enough under the canine assault, but India snatched it up just the same, the puppy accepting the removal of his toy and took on a savage pillow left on the floor.

"Whose shoe is that?" Max asked.

"Um… " India cast about. Lachlan brightened.

"Hey, laddies, let's go on in the kitchen and see what we can stir up for breakfast!"

"We had breakfast already, Uncle Lock," Sebastian said, following his uncles down the hall.

"We did? Well, I'm hungry again."

"Uncle Lock, Uncle David says you have a tapeworm. What's a tapeworm?" Maximillian asked, hauling the yipping white ball of fur with him down the hall, the shoe forgotten. India clutched it to her chest for a moment, then rushed back upstairs and collided with Sullivan.

"Oh, good. The dog found it."

"Yes. Snoozy," she said, exhaling. He leaned against the wall and pulled his shoes on. "Well now. I've got my clothes on and I have dog saliva around my ankle. Now I only need my coat. You also might want to check the cushions on the sofa—I know there's at least three 'items' there that your sons really shouldn't become acquainted with until they're considerably older."

Her cheeks turned red. "I'm so sorry, Alexander… "

"Don't apologize for that, India. I sure as hell won't, but I will apologize for the ruined plaster behind your headboard, and we both knew this was going to be complicated."

"Not this complicated! They weren't supposed to show up until after lunch! I was going to feed you lasagna." She was bereft, as the dish was going to be her first real stab at the recipe, which she had received from the wife of an Italian count. "I'll send some out to you, though."

"Sounds fantastic. It'd be nicer if you were serving it to me yourself, but… "

"I was going to serve it to you naked!" she said mournfully. That got her one of his beautiful smiles, and she embraced him, sighing softly as he kissed her. "Can you… can you come over tonight?" she asked, between breathless kisses. "Oh God, I already miss you!"

"I doubt I can come out here tonight, India. Not with your brothers and your sons about."

"We'll figure something out," she whispered, whimpering when he released her. She searched in the living room for his coat, finally locating it behind the sofa, and helped him into it, glancing anxiously at the hallway to the kitchen. He kissed her again on the way out of the door, and she stood on the portico, watching him trot across the front lawn. He had had the foresight to park in the garage, where the car would not be noticed, and she sighed with sorrow and relief when he pulled out of the drive and drove away, back towards Kembleford.

She looked back at the kitchen door, muttering to herself about poisoning her idiot brothers. Trust them to come too early! She had little doubt that they had deduced the reason for her excitement about their being at Errington for the remainder of the weekend, and it hadn't been because she was eager to practice using her Luger. Just the same, she couldn't very well have her sons witness her killing her brothers, so she plastered on a charming smile and went into the kitchen, praying she could get through this day without needing to be put on trial for murder.

* * *

Father Brown had come across some very enlightening newspaper articles in the Kembleford town archives, as well as various items regarding the renovations and additions made to Applecross. He wrote his findings down, shoved the papers under his cassock, and got on his bicycle, pedaling through the icy streets at a slow rate, not liking the idea of falling over. He arrived at the station house just as Inspector Sullivan pulled up. The younger man clambered out of the car, and Brown did not fail to notice that he wasn't wearing socks. "Good morning, Inspector."

"Er… Father. You're well?"

"In very good spirits. Do you have time to talk?"

"I've a few moments, then I need to pop over to my cottage and… uh… " He looked down—going sockless, in these shoes and in this weather, was not comfortable. "Anyway, come on in." Brown followed Sullivan into the station, where he was greeted by Goodfellow (did the man live at the station?) and a few other constables. Sullivan took his seat at his desk, and Brown sat down opposite him and handed him the paper. The detective read over Brown's findings, then nodded. "Interesting."

"Yes. The family spent a good bit of time in China and Japan, until about nineteen-hundred. There's a brief article in one of the papers about them arriving at port with several large crates in tow. Town records show that they left Kembleford for Asia in eighteen-ninety-three, due to 'financial constraints'—which of course means they were escaping creditors and trying to live a bit more cheaply abroad."

"So the contents of the crates was unknown, I'm guessing."

Brown was staring at a red mark on Sullivan's neck, and the younger man initially failed to realize what had the priest distracted. When he finally did notice, he quickly buttoned up his shirt collar. Brown cleared his throat and nodded. "Precisely. One can't help but come up with some interesting theories."

"Theories aren't always facts, of course." Sullivan neatly folded the paper, unlocked the lower drawer on his right and shoved the paper in. He shut the drawer and locked it.

"Very true. Sort of like Darwin's theory of evolution."

"Hm." Sullivan was distractedly sketching something in ink, and Father Brown leaned forward. He was delighted to see the Inspector drawing a Chinese dragon. The fierce-looking creature was even pursuing a pearl across the page.

"That's a remarkable drawing, Inspector. I wish I had such talent. I can barely draw a stick man!"

The younger man looked down at the drawing and paled.

"Er… thanks… " He shoved the drawing into his desk drawer.

"Where did you train?"

"The police academy, of course," Sullivan, almost growling.

"No… for drawing. Did you receive formal training in drawing?"

"A little. I mean… briefly. I… uh… had to… I had to make a living."

"I'm guessing very little training was required. Perhaps just to hone your skills a bit—sharpen the pencil, as you might say. But practicality had to trump all other considerations, eh?"

"I suppose you could _say_ that."

"It must have been a terrible thing to have to give up your own dreams for the sake of… being practical."

The stress was showing again, and Father Brown knew when to back down and stop pushing. Sullivan was clearly uncomfortable, and the priest didn't want to overstep his bounds. Sullivan would, he suspected, always be guarded in even the most familiar of company and wary of even the kindest of gestures and sincerest praise. Unless, of course, they were coming from India.

"Well, I hope the information I found proves helpful."

Sullivan nodded vaguely. "Yes. I'm… uh… sure it will. Thank you."

Brown smiled and left, and Sullivan sat back in his chair, rubbing his face. He pulled the picture of the dragon out, feeling rather pleased. He looked at his mail, stacking by his blotter, and went through it absently until he found the envelope from London. He opened it cautiously, as if expecting some awful creature to bound out at him, and found it was only a letter, written in Lydia's elegant script.

 _26th December 1954_

 _Alexander,_

 _Your father's heart weakens almost daily, and he can barely stand up without losing his breath. The doctor has said he will not last much longer. I know the rancor and bitterness between you two has existed for many years, and I do not deny your right to be angry still, but I can tell he is distressed, and though he will not say it aloud (you two share the same stubborn natures, like it or not), he longs to see you. He is your father, and you are his only surviving child. Please understand that I am not trying to drag you here out of a sense of guilt or obligation, but only because it is the right thing to do, and you have always done what was right. You need to speak to each other. Put aside your anger, if only for a moment, and at least come say goodbye._

 _Lydia_

He sighed and rubbed his forehead, coming up with a hundred reasons to not go to London. His final shouting match with his father had caused him to sever all ties to his home and family, and he hadn't been back to that little house on Brompton Street—just blocks from Whitechapel—in almost eight years. He folded the letter and stuffed it back into the envelope. His phone rang, and he answered it cautiously. It was the chief superintendent, and Sullivan could only sit back and listen to the man rant and rave about the Brandon case.

"The man is a good friend of mine!" Superintendent Mansfield shouted, and Sullivan braced himself for the consequences of the man trying to intervene. When he saw Goodfellow loping by, he waved at him and directed him to sit down. The sergeant took a seat and waited, eyebrows up.

"Then I suppose he should count himself lucky to have such friends. Nevertheless, he murdered two poachers and threw the bodies into an abandoned well," Sullivan answered calmly. "He confessed and gave us gory details that had not been divulged to the public. I'm not sure what other course of action I should have taken, sir. Murder is murder, no matter who does it or why, and besides, it's not my duty to determine degrees of punishment. I simply do the arrest, line up the charges and send him on the courts. What the jury decides is out of my hands… and yours, too, sir."

"Oh, come on now, Inspector. Surely you can see your way to making some… er… concessions."

Sullivan looked down at the drawing of the dragon. "Like what, sir?" He got a piece of paper out and got his pen ready, and looked at Goodfellow, who leaned in. Sullivan's request, two months ago, for a recording device for his phone had been met with stony silence from Scotland Yard. All he could count on now was his most reliable dogsbody. He held the phone up, so they both could hear.

"Well… I know your performance review is coming up soon… your cooperation could lead to a promotion… perhaps even a move up to Scotland Yard. We all know how ambitious you are, and a move back to London would be right up your alley, eh? Little provincial Kembleford is hardly your cup of tea… I could even make it... er... worth your while."

Goodfellow sighed, shaking his head. Sullivan wrote every word in his precise script, ignoring the sergeant's curious examination of the dragon as he listened in.

* * *

"I'm afraid India is outside right now," Lachlan said, glancing out the window at India, who was watching her sons romp about on the terrace with the puppy. "Might I take a message?"

Sullivan sounded only vaguely annoyed. "Yes. Tell her I will be in London until tomorrow evening."

"Very good. I will see she is informed."

"Cut the officious act. You're not the bloody butler, and thank you." Sullivan rang off, and Lachlan decided then and there that Sullivan had the right sort of mettle to fit right in with the Collins gang. He went outside and waited until India saw him.

"I'm afraid Sullivan is going to London today. He won't be back 'til tomorrow night."

The look on her face was heartbreaking, and Lachlan sighed. He and Duncan had kept their mouths shut all day, even after the puppy had come into the kitchen (while India was preparing noodles for a vast pan of lasagna, and thus didn't see) with a man's sock in his mouth. They had little doubt whose sock it was, and Duncan snatched it away from the puppy, stuffing it in his pocket.

"I see." She brushed snow off the front of her coat. "Well, I'm sure he's doing some investigating in London on the matter… or some other matter. Perhaps something that goes further afield than just… just Kembleford."

"I'm sure it's something that simple," Lachlan said. He looked at Duncan, who shrugged helplessly. The boys had tumbled out into the fields, racing about and getting in some healthy screaming and hurling of snowballs before lunch. India went down the steps and joined her sons again, helping them build a sturdy snow fort and listening to their excited chattering while the puppy yapped.

"She slept with him," Duncan said quietly.

"She's in love, and he's a decent fellow. Told me off quite firmly on the phone, so he's got iron in his spine, too." He sighed and looked at his brother. "I got a letter today… from Margarita." He drew his breath in very slowly. "She's pregnant."

"Dear God… have you told anybody yet? You should have just brought her here and let the chips fall where they may, and besides which, I can't see David throwing you out because you married a Mexican girl!"

"Her family threw her out for marrying a Protestant gringo, and she's terrified of the ocean. I wish I hadn't left her… but she insisted. She said I had to spend time with my family. She wouldn't listen at all… stubborn little thing she is."

Duncan sighed. "Well… either way… she's okay?"

"She's well. Sick in the mornings but she seems cheerful. She says she misses me… God knows I miss her."

"She's still up in the Chisos mountains?"

"She went down to Laredo." Lachlan rubbed his face. "Her family won't even see her. Her own mother… " He sighed. "Damn it… how can they be so cruel?"

Duncan gave his brother's shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. "Like Dad always said: people are people, wherever you go—culture, religion, economics… none of that makes a damned bit of difference, in the end. Come on. We'll tell India about it. That'll distract her for a while, anyway. She'll be over the moon for you, I'm sure."

"She's happy for anybody else who's happy. No offense, but right now, I'd be happier if I was with Margarita."

"Yeah… well, India lives by Solomon's words: 'rejoice with those who rejoice and mourn with those who mourn', and there ain't no baby born yet who ought to be _mourned_ over, though the baby's stupid-ass _parents_ might bear watching, and you can bet Indy'll tell you to get your butt back to Laredo." He grinned when Lachlan cuffed him on the shoulder. "I'll bet it's a girl!"

"Oh, now that's very funny. We run high to boys in this family and you know it."

India came stomping up the steps, brow furrowed. "What's a girl?"

"Lachlan's baby," Duncan said, grinning and earning a whack on the arm from Lachlan.

"And here I thought the weight you've gained lately was due to eating too much," India said, and was indeed delighted to learn she was going to be an aunt again.

* * *

It was dark when Sullivan arrived at the door of the house on Brompton Street, and he hesitated. He hadn't liked leaving Kembleford, much less doing so without telling India anything about it. Besides which, he had other business to attend to in Town and he wasn't looking forward to that, either. Finally, he screwed up his courage and rang the bell. For a moment, there was only silence, then suddenly the door was opened.

Lydia Downes was a handsome rather than pretty woman, and she stood a rather imposing six feet tall, square of hip and jaw, with sharp blue eyes and graying dark hair. She had been married, some years ago, to a stevedore and had borne him three huge wolfhound-like sons whose fearsome looks belied genial personalities. On her husband's death, she had worked in the fish market, lifting loads that made any other man stagger, and Sullivan knew she could bring a man down with one right hook. Yet for all that, she was a kind, understanding woman with a rather puckish sense of humor. She had even been kind to him, despite his initial disapproval of her relationship with his father.

"Lydia."

"Alexander," she said quietly. "Come in. Your father's in the sitting room—we moved his bed down here."

He stepped into the house, taking off his coat and hanging his hat on the peg. Lydia went on into the room and Sullivan stood still, the scent of the house making his stomach tighten. Antiseptic and medicine and bleach. Ivory soap. Laundry detergent of some kind. Orange-scented wood oil. Yorkshire pudding, coffee, Darjeeling tea, tobacco, wet dog, Lydia's perfume, his father's heavy aftershave… all those scents converged at the bottom of the stairs and whirled around him. The scent of this house was never comforting, and now it made him choke.

He stepped forward, and paused when he saw the four charcoal drawings his mother had done—a peaceful seascape, with a sailboat on the horizon, heading toward a distant lighthouse; a thatch-roofed cottage in the Cotswolds, hollyhocks choking the front garden and roses climbing up over the front door; a dark and rather somber grove of ash trees alongside a little lily-pad infested pond; and lastly, a young man and woman walking arm in arm through Scottish heather, Stirling Castle visible in the distance. The sketches lined the wall in the hallway, in prominent view, and had been there since the day his father had moved into the house.

His mother had been a talented artist, and Sullivan still had several of her charcoal and pastel pencils, and many small, unframed drawings—aside from having inherited her eyes and her wry sense of humor, he knew nothing else of her besides those drawings. The only thing he could remember his father ever saying to him that had been even remotely positive was that he had inherited 'a good bit of Irene's drawing skills, for whatever good that does anyone'.

It took more nerve, then, for Sullivan to step into that dreary room than it did for him to run towards gunfire. But he did, and drew in his breath, unprepared for the sight of his father.

He looked… old. Much, much older than he had the last time Sullivan had seen him, during their last, vicious argument. His hair was gray and looked sweaty, and his eyes seemed to have sunken into his skull. He looked almost skeletal, with hollow cheeks, and his arms and hands looked bony. It took a moment for Sullivan's eyes to adjust to the dim light, and he barely recognized the old man. He stood there, silent and unmoving, as Lydia plumped Ardal Sullivan's pillow a bit and murmured to him. "Alexander is here, Ard."

The old man turned his head slightly and looked at his only son. "So ye've come home, I see."

"I have."

"You're looking healthy enough. Took after your Mum's clan." He coughed, and the wracking wheeze made Sullivan's eyes widen in shock. Lydia held a cloth up to the old man's mouth, and Sullivan was even more shocked when he saw drops of blood. Ardal Sullivan looked up, gasping for breath. "Yep… ye have the MacFarlane grit to you, that's for sure. Too bad it wasn't enough to keep your Mum alive. Bloody doctors… they killed her sure as I'm sittin' here." He laughed, making a mirthless, wheezing sound. "MacFarlanes… cattle thieves along Lomond shore. Tough as nails, gentle as kittens, though she weren't as strong as her kin." Ardal sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "God knows she deserved a hell of a lot better."

Sullivan wasn't sure what to make of that.

He looked around the room, finding no place to sit. Lydia was standing at Ardal's side, linen cloths at the ready.

The old man gestured for Sullivan to come closer, and he edged near his father's side.

"What, ye think I'm contagious, lad? Hee… no, none o' that. Keep away from that tobacco… it tore up my lungs. No profit to it—damn that Sir Walter Raleigh, I say. Nay… dyin' is contagious enough, innit?" He looked up at his son, eyes feverish, and Sullivan took a step back, cold fear gripping his chest. "Aye, we're all heading there, ain't we? One day we're heather in the fields, the next we're thrown into the fire, and we pass between the eternities. I were as good-lookin' as you, once—had it all, too—good woman, strong son, home and hearth. Threw it all away for my stupid pride… damned fool I was, wasn't I? Never told your Mum what I should've, and never was a father to you at all. Might as well have been headmaster at some bloody boarding school, for all the good I did you."

Sullivan was speechless. He looked at Lydia, whose expression was inscrutable.

Ardal wasn't finished. "I rebuilt your Mum's little potting shed, in t' back—went back, after the house collapsed and gathered up all the boards—and planted her garden. All her favorite little posies—roses and hollyhocks and them little violet things, whatever they're called—bluebells? Figured she'd appreciate that. Snow's covered it all, of course, but it'll be back in the spring. I hope you don't mind me willin' the house to Lydia here. She'll tend the garden. She promised she would."

"It's… no, I don't… mind… " He looked at Lydia, who said nothing. He doubted she had settled in with his father for money.

Ardal gestured for Lydia to get something off the mantlepiece, and she handed Sullivan a small box. The old man went into a painful round of coughing, spitting up blood, and Sullivan instinctively grabbed a linen cloth and held it to his father's mouth, sopping up the blood and swallowing the lump in his own throat.

Once the coughing seizure had ended, Sullivan looked down at the box. He gingerly opened it, and fingered the old gold and enamel watch—inscribed with the name Tiernan Sullivan, his grandfather, a Kerry County native whose boxing skills and courage on the battlefields of Germany, and later in France and Belgium had earned him numerous trophies and medals. The medals clinked at the bottom of the box, and Sullivan fingered them briefly. A small golden ring, decorated with a tiny diamond, was mixed in with the medals. He took the ring out, watching the diamond flash in the light.

"Your Mum's. Hope you'll give that to a girl worthy of the Sullivan name one day," Ardal said quietly, and Sullivan looked at him. "Make sure she gives you sons, too."

That almost made Sullivan laugh. There had been only three females born into the Sullivan family since 1800. Of course, most of his male relatives were either ice-blooded martinets like Ardal or criminals, but that hardly seemed a suitable subject for discussion now. Girls did not generally survive in the family. Only his cousin Brighid had made it to adulthood—all the others had weakened and died young.

"Your sister's grave needs tending. You'll see to that?"

He had only heard brief mention of his sister Siobhan. She had died just months before his own birth, of diphtheria. She had been sent away, as she couldn't be near her pregnant mother, and the poor girl—barely three—had died alone, with only a few distant relatives to tend her. She was buried in a little churchyard outside London, far from the dreary poverty of Whitechapel.

"Yes. I will."

For a moment, the old man closed his eyes, then he opened them again. "I'm sorry, son."

Sullivan wished he had a place to sit. He could only lean against the wall, stunned.

"You take your Mum's things home with you. Her sketches and those books o' hers, and whatever else you want—it's all upstairs. I'm glad I moved out of that house, otherwise there'd be naught left. That house is gone, along with the whole bloody block. Damned Huns."

"I know… I know it was hard for you to leave, just the same."

"Eh… your uncles insisted I pack it all up, and them MacFarlanes said she'd haunt me if I didn't make sure you got it all one day. I should've given it all to you years ago, when you moved out."

"We were hardly on the best of terms then."

Ardal smiled slightly. "Aye, true enough." He looked at his son. "You look like my father. You'd've liked him. He was of a better humor than me, that's for sure."

Sullivan couldn't think of anything to say.

"Don't be arguin' with me, son, but I'll tell ye straight—I was a bloody failure as a father. Botched it all. Irene… bless her, she begged me to take good care of you, even to her last breath, but I had put iron around m'self and…" He rubbed his eyes, cursing in Gaelic. Sullivan had picked up a lot of his grandfather's native tongue, and he knew none of what his father was saying was suitable for decent company. "I'm sorry, lad. I hope you can forgive me. Been too long now, I suppose, for you to really forgive me, and God knows I don't deserve it anyhow, but I had to say it before I met me Maker."

Lydia wiped his mouth, removing pink foam from his lips. Sullivan couldn't say a word, and he stood, silent and watchful as she left the room and returned a moment later with a chair. He sat down, and she nodded to him. "He's not much longer for this world."

"Oh, now, Lyddie, I'll die when I want to!" Ardal said, and she actually laughed. "You know how the Irish are, eh, lad? Or at least how the Sullivans are. We weep at life and laugh at death. Have ye eaten anything?"

"Uh… no. I'm not really hungry."

"You're not as thin as you were last I saw ye."

"I… uh… I'm eating a little better of late."

That made Lydia's eyebrow lift slightly, but she said nothing.

"Are ye still drawing a bit?"

"More lately."

"You keep drawing. Keeps your Mum alive, I think. Draw as much as you bloody well like. You and your Mum and her mother before her—God-given talent there."

Sullivan felt his eyes stinging, and he looked away, studying the old painting of Ruth embracing Naomi, while Boaz stood nearby, holding the halter on a camel. According to one of his aunts, Irene's mother had done the painting while a young girl in Tarbet—thus the rather out-of-place view of Loch Lomond in the background of the painting, with Eilean-I-Vow a craggy dot in the water. She painted what she knew, and it was extremely well-done for a girl of only sixteen. Arabella Buchanan MacFarlane had been a talented artist in her own right, and had encouraged all her children to draw and paint. Sullivan even had vague memories of sitting in her lap, holding a charcoal pencil in his hand while she guided him in drawing a horse, with her telling him to mind the shadows and catch the spirit of the animal.

Ardal nodded slightly and said nothing more, putting his head back on the pillow and closing his eyes. Lydia got another chair and sat down on the other side of Ardal's bed, finally taking the old man's hand. Sullivan didn't move, watching his father, and the old man's breathing slowed and steadied.

"Da?"

His eyes opened.

"I… I'm… sorry… for what I said… "

"I was a dreadful father. You had every right to say it, Alsander."

That made Sullivan's mouth quirk a bit. His father rarely called him by the Irish version of his name. His own birth certificate listed him as Alexander James, but among the handful of relatives he still was on speaking terms with (that is, those he had never arrested), he was known by his Gaelic name— _Alsander Séamus Ó Súilleabháin_.

"It was said in anger," he finally managed.

"Show me a twenty-four-year-old male who isn't angry, and I'll show you a dull fellow," Ardal said with a weak laugh. "And God knows I gave you reason for anger. Stickin' my nose in where it wasn't wanted, tryin' to dictate your life to you when you were on your own, makin' your way in the world. Too bad you didn't get to marry that little lass you were squirin' about. What was her name again?"

"India."

"Aye. I was thinkin' Asia or Africa. Knew it was a continent." He reached out suddenly and grabbed Sullivan's hand, making him jerk in surprise and almost in fear. "You stay your own course, son. Despite what I may have said in the past, I always knew you'd knock 'em in the Old Great Hall. You ain't Irish for nothin', nor are you a Sullivan for naught. I failed you… but don't let that stop you. You're an Irish Thoroughbred. Remember old Bahram?"

"Yes. I remember." He remembered going to the Derby in '35, watching the Irish-bred colt win after a torrential rainstorm.

"A grand day, that. A grand day." He looked at his son for a moment, the light fading from his eyes. "Not grander than the day you were born, of course. But close." He smiled a little. "Then your poor Mum… promise me you'll tend your Mum's grave, and your sister's, and keep the garden goin'."

"I will, Da."

"I don't want no caterwaulin' at my funeral, neither. Knock a hole in the barrel and have the wake here. No frills. Short service, short sermon, a few hymns, and be done with it. My grave is dug, there by your mother's and my bags are packed. I hope she's forgiven me now... I s'pose we've a few things to discuss, eh?"

Sullivan swallowed, barely able to breathe himself. "Yes, sir."

Ardal studied his son for a moment. "You have a woman now?"

"I… yes."

"Bring her along, too, if she can get here. Might as well get her used to your kin, or at least the ones not currently in prison. What's her name?"

"India."

Ardal's eyes widened in surprise. "The same little colleen, eh? Rekindled the old flames?"

"I suppose you could put it that way."

"Good. Glad to hear it." Ardal looked pleased and put his head back. Lydia wiped bloody spittle from the old man's mouth and sat down again, exhaling slowly. "See to Lydia, too."

"I will." Sullivan swallowed, loosening his tie. "I'm sorry, Da. For… everything… "

The old man waved his hand, shaking his head. " _Uisce faoin droichead_ ," he said, his voice barely a whisper now. " _Ní ballaigh ná brón. Tá gach rud go maith_." He looked at his son for a moment. "Don't be havin' nothin' but regrets carved on your tombstone, son. Take your chance. Throw the dice and trust in God. In the end, that's all you can really count on." He began coughing again, gasping for air, and Lydia held him up, holding the white cloth to his mouth. Ardal looked at his son when the seizure ended, and his expression was remarkably peaceful. " _Is breá liom tú_."

* * *

India couldn't sleep, and some time during the night she gave up and slipped downstairs to the lounge. Snoozy the puppy followed her, having decided that she, not her sons, was his owner. He curled up beside her and she stared into the fire, missing Sullivan so badly she ached and wondered where he was. Was he all right? What could have made him go to London? Had he let himself get scared off?

The phone rang suddenly, and she glared at the puppy, who had been startled into leaving a tiny puddle on one of the sofa cushion. "Furry little twit," she said, gently dropping him back to the floor. She snatched up the phone, fear suddenly gripping her heart—what if something had happened to him?

She held the receiver to her ear, but was too afraid to speak.

There was a pause. "India?"

Her heart swelled. "Alexander! Where are you?"

"Good God, I thought I had the wrong number. I'm in London. Didn't your brothers tell you?"

"Well, yes, but they didn't know why… "

"I had to come home… my father… well, he died a few minutes ago."

"Oh… oh my… oh, no, Alex, I'm so sorry."

"It's all right. It's… actually all right. But… uh… do you think you could… er… come? The funeral is the day after tomorrow."

"I'll be on the first train out of Kembleford."

* * *

There were only a few loose ends to tie up, actually, and that wasn't really very surprising to Sullivan. Whatever one might say about Ardal Tiernan Sullivan, no one ever called him disorganized. The casket had been selected, the hearse arrived at dawn, and Lydia had his best suit laid out, neatly brushed and ironed. The mortician spoke briefly with Sullivan, then they went in and quietly collected the body and took him away.

Memorial cards were delivered to the house before lunch, and Sullivan briefly flipped through them, not interested. Ardal's full name, dates of birth and death and the name of the church where the services were being held were all it said, along with a picture of him in his younger, decidedly healthier days. He stared out at the world, handsome and rather cold, his resolve formed while surviving poverty and violence in Whitechapel, and his character sealed forever at Dieppe and Flanders, fighting the Huns only a few miles from where his own father would be felled by a German bullet, just three days before the Armistice was declared.

Lydia held up one of the cards and smiled a little. "You two could be brothers."

"There is a resemblance," Sullivan said, shrugging.

"Uncanny. Only I daresay you're handsomer. You have your mother's eyes. He called them 'MacFarlane's Lanterns''. Of course, to the MacFarlanes, that was the moon. Perfect light for lifting cattle."

He actually grinned, amused. His ancestors had been skilled cattle thieves along the borders, and it never failed to cheer him up whenever he thought of his forebears stealing cattle from other clans, most notably the insufferable Grants. If they were so much better than the MacFarlanes, they would have been able to hold on to their cows a bit better. Of course, for him to think that now, as a cop, was even more amusing, and despite common sense saying otherwise, he still didn't trust anybody named Grant.

"Did you sleep at all?" she asked him.

"Er… not really."

"And your friend will be here when?"

"Er… " he looked at his watch. "I'm not sure. She just said she'd be on the first train to London and would hire a taxi here."

"All right. Well, I've got to get on over to the church and see that things are arranged. I've not the nerve to tell that poor vicar that your father and I were bedded but never churched… " She gathered up her purse and her coat. "Try and rest a bit."

"I'm all right, Lydia. Really." He was startled when she kissed his cheek before leaving, and he sat down. The house was silent now. No soft whispers, sounds of footsteps creaking on the floorboards, no arguing, no seething anger. Just… empty silence. It was unnerving. He had seen enough death in his life, starting from childhood and on through his life as a police officer, for it to not rattle him, but it still did rattle him.

He went back into the now derelict little sitting room. The couch and a few chairs had been moved back into the room, to provide seating for the guests and mourners who would be coming in before and after the funeral tomorrow. Sullivan thought briefly of getting a room at a hotel somewhere, but he didn't like the notion of leaving Lydia alone so soon. Finally, feeling weary, he climbed upstairs and looked briefly in the bedroom his father had shared with Lydia, wondering again why they had never married. There was a small spare bedroom, which he had occasionally occupied, and at the end of the hall was the bedroom where Irene's possessions were stored. He stepped into the room, shivered, and backed out, feeling spooked. The doorbell rang, and he went down to answer, figuring it was someone from the church, or, God help him, someone bringing food.

To his surprise and immeasurable relief, it was India. Before he could even speak, her arms were around his neck and she was hugging him tightly. For a long time, they stood in the doorway, not speaking, but he finally pulled her in. They sat down together at the bottom of the stairs, and she didn't say a word—just waited.

"Thanks for coming."

"Do you need anything?"

"No."

"Are you hungry?"

"Um… I don't know. I suppose I could eat something."

She nodded and got up, removing her coat and hanging it on the peg. She turned around and looked at the four sketches on the opposite wall. "What lovely drawings—did you do these?"

"My mother did them."

"Well, now I see where you get it—your style is much like hers. What sort of things do you think you have in the kitchen?"

"I've not a clue. That's Lydia's domain."

She nodded and removed her gloves, stuffing them into her coat pockets. She looked around the house, noting that the clocks had been stopped, and saw that black cloth covered the mirrors. "Is Lydia from the South?" she asked.

"No. She's from Manchester."

"Hm." India went on into the kitchen, and after a while he heard her clattering around, pulling out pots and pans. He wandered into the rather bright room and found her digging through the little refrigerator. "Not much scope for the imagination here," she said. "But you still have to eat, so I'm going to make French toast."

"You don't have to, India… "

"Of course I do. Now sit."

He sat, knowing better than to argue with her.

In a few minutes, the scent of frying bread and vanilla filled the air, and he heard Lydia coming in. The older woman appeared in the kitchen door, looking a little startled at first, but she smiled when she saw India. "Well, now, you must be India."

"Yes. It's so nice to meet you, Lydia, though I wish it were under better circumstances. Do you have any powdered sugar?"

* * *

It was late afternoon when people started showing up, bearing plates and dishes of food. It was all horrible, of course, as far as India was concerned (particularly someone's liver mousse, which was beyond description), but their hearts were in the right place. She thought about her grandmother talking about cooking 'funeral food'—"You can put that fried chicken on your grandmother's platter, but the other ladies always know if you made it yourself or bought it someplace, and you get more credit if you make it yourself." Almost everything brought in was homemade, and while the food was awful, the flowers that arrived were lovely. India and Lydia spent some time getting them ready to transport to the funeral parlor, where they would join the rest of the flowers already there, and when the last visitor left, the older woman said she was exhausted and went up to bed.

Sullivan had stayed out of the kitchen, and after he had eaten his French toast in reverent silence, he somehow managed to make small talk (or "tiny talk", as he called it) with his father's friends and a few distant relatives. His cousins were particularly curious about India, but they didn't pry, and India had to tamp down her own curiosity about them in turn. She was surprised to see he had a lovely, sylph-like red-headed cousin named Brighid, who was just eighteen and an aspiring artist.

His two male cousins—Diarmid and Seamus—were redheads, too, and both had clearly worked just as hard as Alexander to get out of the East End. One was a City attorney, and the other was a rising figure in something to do with shipping, and they both lived in Mayfair, while Brighid lived in Pimlico. They were all attractive and charming, and much more talkative than their cousin, though they were properly somber due to the occasion. Brighid gently teased her cousin, and India overheard them discussing a place to find good charcoal pencils and high-quality pastel drawing pads.

The cousins left at almost ten o'clock, murmuring that they would be over in the morning to help get things ready and do whatever they could for Lydia. When they left, India turned off the lights in the hallway and went into the sitting room, where Sullivan was seated on the sofa, staring off into space.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly, sitting down beside him.

"That son of a bitch told me he loved me, right before he died."

India drew in her breath, startled, but she held her tongue. He needed to spit out whatever anger he still had lingering in his heart. He stood up, pacing to the window, and stood there.

"He said it in Irish, of course."

"But you understood him?"

" _Is breá liom tú_. I suppose he didn't think I knew. Did you know… did you know the English banned the Irish language, and forbade us wearing green? In our own country, no less. Of course, they stole our land and drove us out of our own homes. Did that to my mother's country, too, and dispossessed her clan… "

"Alexander, you're not angry at the English."

"No."

"Did you say it back?"

"I couldn't. I just couldn't. I… " he drew a shaky breath and looked away.

She sighed and stood, going to him and gently embracing him. "You need to rest," she said softly.

"I… I need… " He looked at her. "I need you."

She understood what that meant. It was, she supposed, natural and even somewhat normal: a means of working out frustration and sorrow and anger. It would not be the beautiful and loving experience they had shared over the weekend, but it would soothe him, and he needed soothing now. She slipped her arms around him and let him press her against the wall, loving him as he took her, and when they went upstairs to his bed, she held on tight as he took her, again and again and again, tirelessly and desperately, but with surprising passion and even a kind of rough tenderness—he even waited for her, and even in his grief he saw to her pleasure.

At dawn, he finally let go of her and stretched out beside her, on his back, staring up at the ceiling, saying nothing, and she saw his tears. Gently, she rested her head on his chest, brushing the moisture away and whispering her love to him, and finally he slept.

* * *

India didn't expect Lydia to say a word about the sounds from the bedroom next to hers, and was not disappointed. The older woman was quiet at breakfast, only expressing awe at India's cooking skills, and drank her tea as Sullivan went out to buy wood for the fire.

"You love him."

"I do."

"I loved him."

"I know."

A long silence followed. The tea kettle began whistling, and India poured Lydia another cup.

"What will you do now?"

"Ardal willed the house to me. No one is disputing it-I know Alexander never would. It's paid for, and he left me a bit of money. I'll be comfortable for the rest of my life, even here in this neighborhood. It's better than it used to be, anyway, and getting better."

"Good. But if you ever have trouble, remember that Alex is a policeman and I have my own connections." That got her a little smile in response.

"Alexander thinks my husband died before I met Ardal, but that's not so. He left for America. We never divorced." She sipped her tea. "My sons even think he's dead. I could not bear it… the shame of it. People just started calling me Mrs. Sullivan, after a while. My husband is wanted for murder—he can never come back."

India was silent, momentarily stunned, but she finally drew in her breath. "Do you hear from him?"

Lydia shrugged. "He's married someone else. He's a murderer now, and a bigamist. Stunning, eh?" She stood and poured the rest of her tea down the sink. "He changed his name. My husband is, technically, dead. He doesn't exist anymore. And now my Ardal is dead." She shook her head. "We were together almost twenty years."

"I'm sorry you couldn't marry him."

Lydia smiled. "I see you marrying Alexander."

"He… would have to ask."

"Well, God has His ways, and you have to accept them—what's fair to us is not always His way of thinking, but Alexander is the marrying kind, and I believe you are, too. Married before?"

"Yes. My husband died three years ago."

"Children?"

"Two sons."

"Eee, grand there!" Lydia said with a laugh. "Little boys… oh, I can deal with the hearts and little upheavals of little boys. Girls… oh, I'd've loved a daughter, for sure, but I knew girls were difficult, because Lord knew I was! They're civilized when they're little, but when the plumbing starts working and the boys come 'round… oh, dear."

India giggled. "Yes, very true. My mother, who was very prim and proper, told me once that just because the plumbing is in, that didn't mean the house was ready for occupancy."

That made Lydia laugh. "Kept your knees together 'til the wedding night, did you?"

"Yes."

"But with Alexander?"

"Alexander Sullivan is a whole 'nother ball game, Lydia."

* * *

The funeral was quiet, which didn't surprise India at all. The vicar said a few words, two hymns were sung, a eulogy was read by Diarmid, and she sat next to Sullivan, who barely moved a muscle through the entire service. She didn't touch him, and even after the service ended, she stayed away. Back at the house, she settled all the food on a long buffet table, including the liver mousse, which jiggled as she carried it and made her think of jellyfish on a beach—and was just as appetizing.

India had slipped out to the market, early that morning, to purchase supplies and contributed a fruit salad and a large number of simple ham, cheese and watercress 'woman food' sandwiches. When the wake ended, none of the salad or sandwiches was left, but the liver mousse hadn't been touched, and India feared it might give birth to something even more unspeakable. So she and Lydia cleared everything away and threw the mousse out, hoping it might feed some starving (and very desperate) cats.

Sullivan hadn't eaten a thing. He had been polite to everyone, and even took part in conversations, but he was withdrawn and slightly pale, and when everyone left, she gently herded him upstairs. She undressed him, and they made love slowly and quietly until he fell asleep. By the time she had dressed and gone back downstairs, it was dark outside, and the house was silent. Lydia was upstairs in her own room, asleep, and India was actually glad for a moment of solitude. She hadn't brought along any of the necessary 'items', and she lightly touched her belly, wondering, half fearful, half hopeful. She sighed, stretched out on the sofa and slept, then woke at just after midnight, went into the kitchen and began to cook.

* * *

It took most of the next morning to go through all of his mother's things, and he had asked India to go into the room and bring him the boxes—he couldn't bear to go in there. She had requested no explanations and offered no advice, but instead sat by him on the bed in his old room, looking through every box, one by one. Jewelry, books, a baby rattle, soft toys (including a teddy bear that he gripped for several, tense moments before putting it back in the box) and two warm Scottish earasaid cloaks in MacFarlane tartan. A Stuart tartan kilt, a very old dirk, some tams, silver MacFarlane and Buchanan kilt and crest pins and badges; a bagpipe that India was leery of touching for fear it would start screaming; a sporran, and finally, in one box, innumerable photographs. She dug through them, examining photos of handsome, hard-looking men and lovely women, and reading names on the backs. She smiled at Scottish and Irish names—Brighid, Ardal, Alsander, Colm, Connor, Siobhan, Sinead and Padraic and Logan, Lachlan, Ian, Donald, Angus, Egidia, Fiona, Lilias, Irene, Alistair, Uilleag and Tearlach. She rather liked the names Logan and Irene, and tucked the names away in the back of her mind, for later.

"You were an adorable baby," she said, holding up a photo of Sullivan, at just six months. "If a bit stern," she teased, nudging him with her shoulder. "Anyone can see you weren't going to give up that little rattle for anything!"

He fingered the photo for a moment, then put it back in the box, and she saw his hands were shaking. India slipped her arms around him, kissing his cheek. "The bear—it was yours?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to bring it home, or send it with the rest?"

He nodded. "I'd… like to bring it home today." She took the bear and carefully settled it in her own travel bag.

"All right. Well, we can't very well carry all of this on the train. So I'll call the company that moved my stuff to Applecross, and they'll deliver it all to your cottage. Is that all right?"

"Maybe you could store it Applecross instead? I don't have much room… "

"Of course. I'm sorry you didn't get to know your mother, Alex. It must hurt a great deal. I can't begin to know how you feel… but you know I'm not going anywhere you can't find me."

He looked at her, and she smiled softly, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "He never told me much about her. After a while, it was… it was almost as though she never existed. Like I had sprung out his head one day, like Athena out of Zeus's skull. I suppose Lydia was about as close to a mother as I ever had, and I was nearly grown when she came along." He stood up suddenly and paced to the window, staring out at the street below. The snow wasn't white in London—it was almost black, from soot and motor oil and trash. "I need to leave. I can't bear it here anymore. I can't breathe."

"All right." She stood, wiping her hands and looking around the little room. More boxes remained to be opened in the room next door, but he had had enough, or perhaps far too much. He rushed out of the room, and India held back, knowing he needed to regroup. He was, she supposed, typical—like most men, he could not display his emotions, but his actions certainly demonstrated how he felt. His desperate, almost savage passion of the night before the funeral, and his silence of yesterday, even while they had made love, told her that he was devastated, and needed his own time to work his way through his grief.

India went to Lydia's door and knocked softly. "Lydia, Alexander and I are… um… going back to Kembleford."

The older woman came out of the room, looking very pale and rather thin, the black clothes she wore seeming to hang on her angular frame like a shroud. India squeezed the woman's arms and peered cautiously at her. "You'll be all right?"

"I think so. My own sons are coming this evening. We'll make sure his mother's things are ready to go, and that anything breakable is wrapped up proper-like."

"Thank you. Call me if you need anything—I left my number and address by the phone, and I left at least three days' worth of food in your refrigerator, and it's enough to feed your sons, too."

"Good heavens, how did you …?"

"I got up and cooked all night. It's what I do," India said, shrugging. "I do my best thinking while I cook. Just heat the main courses in the oven—a lot of it is American style, but hopefully you'll like it well enough." She smiled and gave Lydia a warm hug, then the woman stepped around her and embraced Sullivan, who briefly rested his forehead on her shoulder, and India could see he was breathing deeply, struggling to maintain his control. He finally stepped back, and India went downstairs, waiting briefly by the door. He joined her a moment later, holding only a small leather bag, and she kissed him.

"It's all right."

He said nothing and went out. She picked up her things and followed him out, closing the door behind her. She looked up at the narrow little rowhouse and sighed, then waited for a taxi to stop. He held the door open, and as she got in, he stopped her. "Thank you," he said softly, holding her hands. "I can't imagine how I would have gotten through this… " He cleared his throat. "I have to make a stop at Scotland Yard, before we go back to Kembleford... though it looks like rain today, and it'll freeze tonight... "

"Oh. Okay. Is it something serious?" she asked.

"Probably."

She touched his cheek, smiling at him, and settled in the seat. He climbed in beside her and they rode away in silence, heading toward Victoria Embankment, the grim streets of the East End fading away behind them.

There was nothing more to say.


	13. Chapter 13

"I'll meet you back here," Sullivan told India, paying the taxi driver. "At around three o'clock."

"Alex… what's going on?" she asked.

"Just some cleaning up to do. That's all. Do a bit of shopping, and wait for me in that coffee shop." He nodded at the little place across the road, kissed her cheek and she climbed out of the taxi. It pulled away before she could ask him anything else.

The ride to Scotland Yard was brief, and he dozed off on the way, exhaustion becoming rather overwhelming, and the taxi driver had to shout to wake him up. He paid the driver and got out, avoiding puddles and wishing he had an umbrella. He nodded to a passing bobby and looked up at the rather grim building before climbing the steps up to the door. A brief conversation with a chubby desk sergeant led him to the cramped office of a startlingly tall man named Stewart—Constabulary Police Authority Michael Stewart of Gloucestershire, Avon and Somerset Districts. The title alone took up almost the entire office door.

"Sullivan, was it?" Stewart gestured for him to sit, and Sullivan squeezed into the room, briefly wondering if his claustrophobia might kick in. He settled uneasily into the chair opposite the man and waited. Stewart shuffled papers around, perusing them quickly, found what he was looking for, and sat down. "Chief Detective Inspector Alexander Sullivan, Kembleford Constabulary. You're in charge out there, eh?"

"Yes."

"I've heard about you. You've got quite the reputation."

Sullivan tugged uneasily at his tie. "I can only hope that my reputation is… "

"Excellent, actually. High case closure rate. Sterling reputation for honesty. Meticulous, conscientious, willing to jump into the fray when required, and that seems to have lately included a… brawl at a pub called the Red Lion. Hm. You've even been merciful when mercy is required, and I happen to like that—the law cannot be just without mercy, in my opinion." Stewart looked down at some papers spread out in front of him. "You arrested your commanding officer on your first day on the job—fresh out of the academy."

"He was taking bribes. He tried to get me in on it."

Stewart's mouth twitched. "Grant was a rather unpleasant fellow."

"He was also known to beat confessions out of people. That was even more… unsettling." Sullivan bit back the notion of saying that no Grant could be trusted anyway. "I witnessed him doing that, too."

"Are you here to report another such miscarriage of justice?"

Sullivan unfolded the paper and slid it across the desk to Stewart. "District Superintendent Mansfield called me three days ago, asking me knock Sir Alfred Brandon's murder charges down to something less gallows-worthy, and then he offered me remuneration for my trouble. If I had received the recording device I had requested some time ago, I could have recorded the conversation. Since I did not have that resource, I could only have Sergeant Goodfellow come in and listen in, and he has agreed to serve as a witness if required."

Stewart read the paper, then looked up at Sullivan. "That's a lot of money."

"If I were interested in money, I would have gone into something lucrative, like organized crime. I could have worked for the Kray brothers, for instance."

Stewart looked amused. "True." He folded the paper carefully. "Well then. Rumors of Mansfield's… er… style of handling such cases have floated up to Scotland Yard in the past year or so, and he got into his position via certain channels that never did sit well with me, though that was only an inkling. What surprises me, Sullivan, is that you've always been extremely ambitious. You could use this as leverage to get a position here. I know Kembleford is not exactly where you wanted to be… though, as I understand it, the chief constable at Chelsea sent you out there because you were showing signs of… strain. Still doing a stellar job, of course, but he was a tad worried. Said you had started to look worn down."

Sullivan swallowed. "I didn't like policing the Chelsea Flower Show."

Stewart snickered. "Well, I wouldn't like that either. Crowd control is necessary, of course, and those flowers can get a bit wild."

"Their cultivators got even wilder," Sullivan said, remembering a shouting match between a pair of women at the show, with one insisting that the other's roses had 'raped' her own blooms and created a striped hybrid that Sullivan had personally thought looked rather nice. Things had gotten out of hand when the cultivator of the 'ravished' roses had grabbed a pair of scissors and gone after the cultivator of the 'rapist', and Sullivan had ended up with a torn tunic, an ugly scratch on his side, a bump on his head, and a distaste for flower shows. It was after that incident that McRae had reassigned him to Kembleford.

"Either way, I assume you're here to not only continue to cultivate your own reputation, but also to possibly angle for a position here? I'd say you've earned it. Almost four years out in the Cotswolds, with little excitement..."

"And a meddling priest," Sullivan muttered.

"… so you must be straining at the bit to come back to London." Stewart blinked. "A meddling what?"

"Er… never mind."

Stewart shrugged. "All things considered, you'd more than qualify for an elevation in status and increase in pay…"

Sullivan drew in his breath, then shook his head. "I'm requesting that I be permanently assigned to Kembleford, sir. Beyond that, I ask for nothing else."

That definitely threw Stewart for a loop. He scratched the back of his head. "Well. That beats the Chelsea Flower Show, doesn't it? Everything I've ever heard about you was that you were very bitter about moving out there, however much Chief Constable McRae thought it was best for your health. He liked you a good bit, actually, but said you were better suited for country life."

"I… used to disagree." He remembered that discussion with Welkin, the so-called wizard, and how the man had seen that Sullivan had been running away from something. He had been running, and from more than just his domineering father, but now he was ready to stop running and just live.

"And now?"

"I find that it suits me."

Stewart smiled. "So you're putting down roots?"

"Might as well. There's nothing left for me in London."

"Truly?"

"My father died two days ago. My stepmother is comfortably settled and she has her own children to tend to her. My cousins are on their own, and doing well. I'm… superfluous to them, at best."

"I… I'm sorry for your loss," Stewart said, looking a little surprised.

"You didn't kill him. Blame Sir Walter Raleigh."

Stewart nodded. "Well. I will present your evidence to Mansfield's superiors, and will contact you if anything further is required. This Goodfellow… he's a straight arrow, too?"

"He wouldn't be working under me if he weren't, and besides, he could never risk ruining his own career—he has a wife and children to consider, and he knows I don't take bribes and that I don't bargain."

"Very well. I will get the paperwork going on seeing to your permanent assignment to Kembleford… and if you'll allow it, an increase in pay."

Sullivan shrugged. He didn't care.

"Permanent roots, eh? Preparing to marry a local girl, perhaps?"

Sullivan looked at the stack of files on Stewart's desk and compared it to the stack on his own at the constabulary. He didn't want a job like this—ever. His work in Kembleford was enough, and he got to go home at the end of the day and leave it all at the office. Just a few years ago, he would have jumped at a chance to be in charge of some vast district, or perhaps the entire Metropolitan police force, but now… he was happy to let Kembleford run its own show and step in only when things went sideways. The past few weeks had been rough, for sure, but he could see things weren't so bad compared to this. Just looking around Stewart's windowless, cramped little office told him all he needed to know about what he wanted for his life, and this wasn't it.

"I am pondering the idea."

"Pondering? Hm. I didn't do much pondering myself. I just knew my Helen was the right girl. You either want to marry her or you don't, and there's no point to waffling about on the matter." He picked up a pen and tucked it behind his ear. "You'll just have to decide, and then it's up to her, of course. If she can stand you, then I suspect you'll rub along quite well."

"I suppose so." He stood. "Thank you, sir."

Stewart stood as well, smiling. "Well, wherever you end up, Sullivan, I can honestly say that if I ever commit a crime, the last person I'd want to see coming after me would be you. Good day, and good luck."

* * *

India was tired of shopping, and was happy to just sit in the little coffee shop, sipping tea and watching gloomy rain coming down. The waiter came over, bowing gracefully, and asked if she wanted more, but she didn't hear him—she saw the taxi pulling up and Sullivan getting out, and she almost knocked the waiter over in her eagerness to get outside. The bell over the door rang as she rushed out and she embraced him, hugging him tightly.

"What's wrong? Did something happen?" he asked her, looking anxiously at her face.

"No, I'm fine. I just… well, blast if I sound clingy, but Lord… I was worried about you."

He shook his head. "Nothing to worry about, India."

"What did you have to talk about?" she asked, and the clouds cracked open and heavy rain began falling. She pulled him under the café awning and they went into the little shop. She smiled apologetically at the waiter, who was cleaning spilled tea off the tabletop, and Sullivan pulled out a chair for her. She sat and smiled at him when he sat across from her.

"Just… a police matter."

"Oh."

"Also the fact that I've decided to live permanently in Kembleford. I have enough clout now that I can make small demands, or so it seems."

"Oh. So… so you have no plans to move to London?"

"Are you going to move to London?"

"Certainly not. Nor anywhere else."

"Then I have no reason to come back here, either. Except for minor…" he looked at the bags on the floor by her chair. "… shopping excursions… what, did you buy up Harrod's?"

"I had to get you a Christmas present. Then I went elsewhere because I had to look for a… um… " she looked up at the waiter, who had returned with an order pad.

"Coffee, please. Cream, no sugar," Sullivan said, and the waiter scribbled, nodded and left.

"A… ?"

"Well, I never could find that pink teddy, so I had to get that for you."

"I can't wear a pink teddy, India. It would scar me for life, and frankly it would cause irreparable damage to your psyche as well."

His deadpan delivery made her start giggling. The waiter returned with his coffee, and he refilled India's teacup. Sullivan looked out the window, watching the rain pour down. "It'll likely freeze tonight," he said tiredly.

"Yes."

"Rail travel might not be a good idea. Plus… Good God, it's New Year's Eve!"

"Oh, my! I had totally forgotten! Perhaps we should stay in Town, then. We… we could go back to Brompton."

"God, no."

"Okay. We could stay at the Savoy," she said softly. "I'll just need to call home. Oh! My brother Lachlan and his wife are expecting their first baby."

"He's married?"

"Yes, unbeknownst to us all, of course—he had got married sometime last June. David was very pleased, of course—Margarita is a Mexican sheepherder's daughter, and I hear she's as sweet as can be, and has a level head on her shoulders, though she's only eighteen. I can't wait to meet her, though I'd have to go back to the States for that, as she's very afraid of the ocean and won't sail or fly over it for all the gold in California. It'll be nice to visit home again, perhaps in the spring or summer, or preferably the fall, and maybe you could come with me? It's very lovely in the Hill Country, but West Texas is much, much different from the Cotswolds. In fact, it might as well be Neptune compared to the Cotswalds, but I rather like it, and I think the desert air would rather suit you." He watched her talk, and she finally wound down, feeling uneasy because of his silence. "Is something wrong?" she finally asked. "I know I prattle on. I'm sorry… "

"Don't apologize. I like listening to your prattle." He took a sip of his coffee. "And I'd hardly call it prattle anyway." He looked out at the darkening street, rain still coming down in sheets. "Winter rainstorms… never could stand them. Particularly when I was a bobby—we'd have to stand in those little boxes and just wait it out, and they never did provide good shelter."

"Rain meant having to stay indoors, for me. My mother threw fits if I got my clothes wet or dirty, but my father didn't mind. He said girls should play in the dirt, too. Of course, he had no trouble joining in my tea parties. I'll never forget him singing 'I'm a Little Tea Pot' with me and Madeleine, and falling over on the floor when he had to tip over… he was wearing a tuxedo at the time, and was on his way out the door to dine with King George."

Sullivan smiled slightly, something shadowing his eyes, and she reached across the table, clasping his hands. "When the rain lets up, we'll head over to the Savoy. You need to sleep."

"I was rough on you," he said softly. "Did I… hurt you?"

"No."

"I'm sorry."

"For not hurting me?"

"For being rough."

"You needed the release," she said softly. "People do that, you know. After someone dies, people often need sex. It just seems to help somehow. Reaffirming life, I suppose." She took a sip of her tea. "One life ends, another begins."

He was staring into the depths of his coffee cup, then he suddenly looked up at her. "We… didn't use… "

"No. I forgot them." She took another sip of her tea. "It's all right."

"If you're… you're pregnant… "

"We won't know for sure for another couple of months, I think."

He loosened his tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt, and she thought him the sexiest man alive. "But if you are… "

"Then we'll have a baby. If it's a boy, I rather like the name Logan—that's one of my brothers' names, oddly enough, but I saw it among the names of some of your kinfolks—and if it's a girl, I will insist she be named Irene. I won't hear any other suggestions."

She saw stark panic in his eyes, and it was gone before she could even react to it. He drew in his breath. "I would try to be a good father. I just don't know if I will be."

"You'll do just fine." She looked out the window, watching the rain continue coming down, heavy and oppressive, but she felt remarkably cheerful. "I'm still trying to learn how to be a good mother, by the way—I seem to get better at it with each baby. Now, I suppose we'll be here a while, so let's get a newspaper and do the crossword."

"Good Lord… it's amazing that I could lose track of time this way—in a few hours, it'll be nineteen-fifty-five. Why aren't we zooming around in flying cars?"

She laughed. "All things being equal, I still prefer riding horseback over driving cars. Flying cars would be dreadful to me. Happy New Year, Inspector! I'll have to remember to make black-eyed peas, ham and coleslaw before the end of the day tomorrow. For good luck."

He had never heard of eating black-eyed peas, and wasn't sure what coleslaw was, but if she was doing the cooking, he was sure it would taste amazing.

* * *

"His father died? Oh… well, tell him that he and his family are all in our prayers," Lachlan said. "I'm… um… leaving tomorrow and David will be coming out to stay for a bit. He wants to hire a team of diggers to come out and excavate the tunnels, but that will require your permission and police supervision and you bossing everybody around until they want to stab you to death in your sleep."

"You're going home?" India asked, still rubbing her hair dry. As soon as they had arrived at the hotel, Sullivan had collapsed into bed and had gone right to sleep. She had taken a shower and called home to Applecross, and sat in the bathroom with the phone, trying to keep quiet. It was late evening, and the rain had failed to put a total damper on fireworks displays and celebrations across London, but India had never been interested in such goings-on. The noise outside barely even made Sullivan flinch—he was out cold, and that was for the best, and she looked forward to a good night's sleep.

"Yes. I can't bear to be away from Margarita any more, and now that she's pregnant, how can I hang around here anymore? Dunk is staying 'til you kick him out."

"That's fine. And yes, we'll need police permission. I won't step on Alexander's toes."

There was a silence, and India rolled her eyes heavenward. "Yes, he's in here with me, and he's asleep after hours of wild, debauched sex."

"Stop it!" Lachlan said, shuddering. "Remember when we caught Mother and Dad together?"

"And you believed they were playing leapfrog. That was what made it even weirder."

"Shaddup already. But you're okay?"

"I think so," she said softly. She opened the door and peeked out, relieved to see that Sullivan was still sleeping, on his side and breathing so quietly she had already checked twice to make sure he was still alive. Fritz had snored a bit, though thankfully it had never bothered her a lot. Sullivan was silent.

"And he's okay?"

"He isn't saying a lot."

"Are you going to marry him, India?"

"If he asks."

"Do you think he will?"

She watched her lover, worrying as he stirred and shuddered slightly in his sleep and buried his head deeper into the pillow, like a child hiding from a monster. "That's between us, Lock. You take care of Margarita and that wee bairn of yours, okay?"

"I will. I love you, baby sister. You take care of yourself. And that copper of yours."

"I will. I love you too, and have safe passage home. Send me a telegram when you get to Laredo. Happy New Year!"

"Yeah. And those streets will be as cold as the clay, I'm sure. Happy New Year, Indigo."

She rang off and resumed rubbing her hair dry, then slipped out of her robe and climbed into bed with him, gently pulling him into her arms. He sighed, softly nuzzling her breasts before resting his head on her belly and muttering "Bean álainn..." before drifting away again. She stroked his hair and listened to the rain still pouring outside, sleep finally claiming her as the world turned into a new year and the rain finally stopped.

* * *

The train ride into Kembleford was much different from their earlier trip, where so much anger and hurt had been between them. Now she sat beside him, contributing a word to the Times crossword puzzle every now and then and flirting outrageously. That made him blush and even stammer sometimes, which was so adorable she just wanted to cuddle him like Snoozy the puppy.

She smiled when the door opened and an elderly couple came into the compartment.

"Mr. and Mrs. Fielding! How nice to see you again. Are you both well?" India asked, standing up as they entered, as did Sullivan.

"We are." Harriet looked back and forth between them. "So I'm guessing you two are getting on better now?"

"Oh, yes. Much better. Please, sit down—someone left this blanket behind, too. Are you on your way back to Brocklesby?"

"Oh, no, we're heading to Cardiff now. My sister is ailing a bit," Harriet told her.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I hope she gets better, and how could she not if you're there to see her? Tell me about your holiday in Brocklesby—did all go well?"

The old couple filled India in on their Christmas adventures, and Sullivan read the newspaper, amazed that she was so able to make anyone around her feel comfortable and important. She had a definite knack for conversation, too, though he kept quiet as the three of them chatted.

The train chugged along, passing snowy fields and frosted-over little villages, and he looked up at Boxwood Mansion as it loomed ahead, the pond in front frozen solid. Confused ducks were waddling across the ice, and icicles hung from the willow trees around it. He searched in his coat pocket for the small sketchpad Brighid had given him after the funeral and he did a quick drawing of the house and the pond, not initially realizing the conversation had stopped.

"That's a lovely sketch," Harriet said, and Sullivan flinched when he realized everyone was staring at him.

"Oh. Um… thanks."

The old man studied the sketching carefully. "Professional quality, I'd say."

"He ought to know, too," the old woman said, gesturing at her husband. "He runs a little gallery in Waterloo Quarters. For local artists."

Sullivan eyed the old man, and India's eyebrows went up. "Really?"

The old man shrugged slightly and leaned in to study Sullivan's drawing, despite the younger man's discomfort. He hadn't let anyone, aside from India, Father Brown and lately Goodfellow to even look at anything he drew. To have a stranger assess his work made his stomach tighten, as if he were preparing himself for a blow.

"I'm in charge of the modern collections—acquisitions and exhibitions of what I call 'recognizable art'—portraits and landscapes, and last month we did an exhibition of 'street art'—some of the paintings and drawings were of shabby old houses and street scenes and hard people, but you'd be shocked how many talented Cockneys are skulking about London. We've not much use for the modern stuff, I admit, and neither have they. This is excellent," the old man said, nodding at the sketch. "Good eye for the shadows, and you've a knack for proportion, too. And you've got the reflection of the house on the ice down, too. Most folks would overdo that and try to make it look too perfect." He studied Sullivan for a moment. "Photographic memory?"

"Um… yes."

The old man thought for a moment. "Draw Windsor Castle."

Sullivan sighed, rubbed his temple, and did a quick sketch of the famous citadel, as seen from the Thames. The old man looked pleased. "Very nice, and accurate. You should do an exhibition. I could run one for you."

"Er… no thank you. I'm sorry, but… I… " he looked helplessly at India, who smiled at the old man.

"Alexander is a detective with the Kembleford police. I'm afraid he's far too busy now. But… perhaps one day he might be persuaded." She caught Sullivan's slightly appalled expression, and smiled. "Though it might take a great deal of tickling until he finally gave in."

The old man seemed satisfied with that and sat back, relaxing. Sullivan gave India a little growl and she only smiled back, unfazed. He drew another picture and showed it to her, and she squeaked and turned pink. "Scoundrel!" she whispered. "This is almost… do I really look that way?"

"Yep."

"Wow. I do have nice breasts. I mean, I never really… " She glanced at the elderly couple in the seat opposite and smiled innocently, knowing their hearing wasn't the best. Or at least she hoped it wasn't. "It's almost… well… it is naughty."

"It's how you look when your eyes roll back in your head," he said with a smug little smirk, and she whacked him on the arm, giggling. Another couple came into the compartment and took seats across from each other, both clearly angry, and Sullivan and India glanced at each other. She turned on the charm, as did the Fieldings, and by the time they reached Kembleford station, the couple's anger had faded and they were talking again.

* * *

It was a short walk from the station to Sullivan's little cottage, and at first he seemed uncomfortable about letting her in. He had never actually had a guest in the house before, and he hurriedly cleared away the dishes he had left out, settling them in the sink to soak a bit, then stood in the middle of the sitting room, bewildered. India perched in his chair, hands folded neatly in her lap, and finally she shook her head. "Calm down. Sit."

He looked around. "Where?"

"Well… " she stood. "Where's your bedroom?"

"It's… over there… " he said, nodding at the door. She stood and took his hand, moving slowly into his shy embrace, and smiled as he began undoing the buttons on the back of her dress, finally pushing it down off her hips and letting it fall in a puddle around her feet. She kicked off her shoes, letting them land where they may. "You're so beautiful," he said softly, kissing her bared shoulder.

"So are you," she whispered, moaning as he undid the thin silk ribbon that tied the top of her bustier together. He took his time undoing the tiny snap buttons, nuzzling her neck and making her knees weak. When he finally pulled the undergarment apart, she undid his trousers, and he moved her against the bookcase. India grasped the shelf behind her with one hand, knocking books over and hearing something fall down beside her, but neither she nor he cared, and she sighed into his mouth as he finally kissed her. She moved her hand down to touch him, bringing out the wildness of him then and falling even deeper in love with him as he took her to heaven.

* * *

"Hello! Anybody home?" India yelled, stepping into the foyer. She was nearly knocked over by her sons, who came charging down the stairs at full speed, followed by the yapping puppy, who was thankfully a lot slower. She kissed her boys and hugged them both tightly, listening to them tell her about their adventures of the past three days. She even scratched Snoozy's ears.

Duncan came out of the kitchen hallway, looking a bit harried.

"Herding chickens, huh?" she asked, kissing her brother's cheek.

"Chickens and cats. And now we have a puppy. But I made chicken and waffles."

"Oh! That sounds wonderful. Cranberry sauce?"

"What's chicken and waffles without cranberry sauce?" He led everyone into the kitchen, and the children clambered up into their chairs, sitting on their knees as they ate. India was glad to get a good meal in—dinner at the Savoy had been underwhelming, though it was better than what she had expected, and she had decided to skip breakfast at Sullivan's cottage, not wanting to wake him, but had found some oatmeal and was relieved there was fresh milk in his refrigerator, so she had left him a note ordering him to eat before going to work.

His stamina had astounded her, and he had fallen asleep just before dawn, after drawing a nude of her (stretched out in his bed, the sheet only covering her waist) in pastels, and she blushed at the thought of that picture, particularly when he said that Marilyn Monroe looked like a saggy old hag compared to her and proceeded to schtup her senseless. She couldn't remember having had a better morning in her life, and she had relished gently lulling him to sleep afterwards.

"So… er… the funeral went well?"

"As well as any other, I suppose," India said softly. "Neither grim nor cheerless. Just… funereal."

"And he's all right?"

"I think so. I think if you cut his arm off, he'd say he was fine. But he's working his way through it as best he knows how."

Duncan said nothing more on the matter and they ate quietly, the children chattering excitedly about Snoozy's exploits (including the wholesale destruction of one of India's stilettos) and how they looked forward to and dreaded starting school after the turn of the year. She had already made inquiries about enrolling them in either the local village school or at the St. Mary's parish school, and decided to send them to the village school, as she knew Fritz would roll over in his grave if his sons received Catholic instruction. She could have opted to wait to put them in classes next fall, but had decided it was best to throw them into the pool and make them swim, and besides, they had already formed friendships with neighboring children who also attended school in town. They would be fine.

She helped the boys into their riding clothes and coats and went with them to the stables. Duncan came along and helped saddle up, and soon the boys were trotting across the field, posting beautifully and creating a lovely picture in the snow, their ponies' bright bay and nearly black coats in sharp contrast to the white background. She wished Sullivan could come out and do a sketching of them, and perhaps spend some time with them. They needed to get to know each other, and that uneasiness still gnawed at her heart—what if they didn't get along? Sullivan's gruff nature and their rambunctiousness might not blend…

"You look a bit troubled," Duncan said. He had lit a cheroot and was smoking, leaning back against the sturdy stone wall that shielded the stable yard from high winds.

"I love him so much, Dunk… but what if… "

"What if he and your kids don't get along?"

"Yes."

"Well, it's not like he'd sell them on the black market if they break his prized collection of porcelain unicorns. I suspect he knows that if he wants you, they're part of the package. He's no dummy—he'll figure it out, and so will the boys."

"He's so… stern and they're noisy and they do break things, though never out of malice. And now we have a puppy."

Duncan laughed. "Come on, baby sis. Stop worryin' about stuff that hasn't even happened yet. Will it add an inch to your height?" He stubbed out the cheroot. "You know, Lock and I discussed those tunnels at some length. We still didn't go any further than we went that first night, even with our flashlights, because I'd hate to incur the wrath of Inspector Sullivan by mucking up evidence and the like, but we both feel that if there are doors blocking the way into the rooms where stuff might be stored, then how would Scroggins have gotten through the passageway from either of the hatches across yonder?" he asked, pointing his chin toward the tree line. "We figure that during those three years that no one lived here, someone had to have come along and either dug a passageway alongside the rooms or someone has a key, and that rock cairn covering those boards is still a big curious to us both—whatever's buried under that had better be grand, considering all the trouble they went to at burying it."

"I've found no keys around here, and you should present your theory to Alexander."

"Right. I'll talk to him. I remember Scroggins mentioning that he almost got into a bottle of something down here. So he had to have had access to something, right? If whoever stored a bunch of stuff down there had any sense, they wouldn't have made anything too accessible to just any old fool."

"You haven't heard anything from the police?" she asked, but Duncan shook his head. She watched her sons race their ponies across the field, having shortened their stirrups like jockeys and riding with their little butts in the air. Sebastian's pony outpaced Max's, and she was proud of her elder son for congratulating the younger on his victory. They lengthened their stirrups and rode back towards the stable yard, grinning happily. "Did you see, Mummy, did you see?" Sebastian said excitedly. "Batter outran Pitcher!"

"That's very good, sweetheart," India said, helping him down. Max jumped off Pitcher unaided, and the four of them walked back to the stables, the ponies following along quietly. India sat on an overturned barrel with Duncan and watched the boys cool the ponies out and rub them down, while Snoozy bounced around, getting to know the horses and getting spat and hissed at by a cat. The puppy hid behind India's legs, and she smiled at her sons.

"I think that tonight, we will invite Inspector Sullivan over for supper. You know him, right?"

"Yes'm," Max said, putting his saddle and bridle back in the tack room. "He's… sort of nice. Not mean, anyway. He could have put me in prison for breaking that window."

India's mouth twitched. "I doubt it would have come to that, sweetheart. The Inspector and I are… we're… seeing each other."

Sebastian and Max looked at each other, then at her. "Are you gonna marry him?" Sebastian asked cautiously.

India's cheeks pinked. "Well, I like him a great deal, darling, and if he asks… I'll say yes."

The boys pondered this quietly, and she waited. This was new territory for them both, as much as it was for her. Max had the clearest memories of their father, while poor Sebastian had been too young to fully grasp what all was happening in Fritz's final days. Just the same, their memories of Fritz were all entirely positive, and she feared they would not appreciate an intruder coming into their secure and uncomplicated little world.

"Would you be happy with him, Mummy?" Sebastian finally asked.

"I would be," she said softly.

The boys looked at each other again. "Okay," Max said. With that, the boys took off, running back toward the house. This time, Max was the winner to the door, and they clattered inside. The puppy stayed behind India's legs, uneasy about going near the cats again.

"Well… that was easy," Duncan said with a laugh.

"If only it would be," India said softly.

* * *

"So, Mrs. Moretti, what exactly happened?" Sullivan asked, leaning forward on his arms, sleeves rolled up, looking at the attractive older woman across from him.

"Well… Mr. Palladino and I were about to embark on a passionate love affair… but destiny intervened."

"You mean Destiny Palladino… his wife?"

"Yes. He didn't tell me he was married, the big jerk."

"So you both started beating him with your purses?"

"Yes."

"Those heavy wicker purses that old… I mean… er… mature women often carry? You could have broken his arm."

"We only managed to break his nose," Mrs. Moretti said, dabbing daintily at her watering eyes. "Carlo Palladino… that baciagaloop! He toyed with my emotions! If we were back in Sicily, he'd be in hot water!"

"Well, yes, I suppose that would lead to some legal difficulties as well, though mainly for you, assault-charge wise… "

"What are you talking about? He'd have been in hot water. Boiling water, actually. I have connections, you know. My uncle Carmine officially sells olive oil, but that's just a front… "

* * *

Sullivan closed the door to the interrogation room and leaned back against it, exhaling. "Baciagaloop?"

"Inspector Sullivan."

He glared across the way at Father Brown, who was standing there holding his umbrella and looking rather cheerful. "Father. How can I help you?"

The priest smiled. "Can we talk in your office, please?"

He was heading toward the door when Goodfellow came over, waving a paper in his hands. "Sir! We're wanted at Boxwood Mansion. Lord de Ros has dropped dead. Lord Edgefield isn't saying much, but he would like us to come look."

"Dropped… dead?" Father Brown said.

"Fine." He looked at the priest, who sighed and nodded. "Sorry, Father, but de Ros was a Protestant."

"Can we talk later then?" Brown asked quickly, as Sullivan pulled on his coat and grabbed his hat.

"Sure, Father."

Brown lowered his voice, looking up and down the hallway. "Do you think this might have anything to do with…"

"We'll discuss your issue later. Thank you and good morning." Sullivan had to gallop to keep up with Goodfellow, and Father Brown stepped outside as the car sped away, bell ringing. He sighed and got on his bike, pedaling glumly back to the presbytery.

* * *

Lady Penelope was quiet and appeared to be crying, but Sullivan didn't miss that her eyes were dry. So either she was doing a passable performance at grief or she had a severe tear-duct blockage, and he wasn't betting on the latter.

Lord de Ros was lying on the floor of the dining room, dead as a doornail, and Sullivan paced around him, checking how he had fallen—he had apparently been on his way across the room, heading towards the lounge, and had keeled over about halfway through, apparently falling first to his knees and clutching at his heart. His arm was still under his body. Sullivan had Goodfellow roll him over, and he saw a bit of white spittle on the man's mouth.

"Heart attack," Penelope said. "He never did take good care of himself." She began wailing then, keening like a banshee, and Sullivan directed another constable to take her away. He frowned and stood up, staring down at the dead man. To have said that de Ros had been alive and well last time he had seen him would be only telling half the truth—the man had never looked as though he was enjoying robust health. He didn't look a lot better now.

Finally, feeling a bit weary, he went into the lounge, where Lord Edgefield and Lady Penelope were seated on the sofa together. Edgefield was silent, and Sullivan suspected the man would have little to say ("Happy days are here again!" would hardly seem appropriate, anyway), but he did have to ask questions. However, when he glanced at the man, he noticed he looked like he wanted to say something but was uneasy about doing so. Sullivan made a note to see if the man wanted to speak with him later.

"My condolences on the loss of your husband, Lady Penelope. I know this is a very difficult time for you, but I do have to ask some questions for our report," Sullivan said, sitting down in a chair across from the brother and sister, noting Lord Edgefield's uneasy expression again. He studied her, remembering what she had said to her mother's corpse on Christmas Eve—something about a secret they shared. What secret? Did it have to do with the tunnels? Or was it something else entirely? Perhaps the Dowager Countess had been helping her daughter with finding a way to bump off Lord de Ros… anything was possible.

The only problem was that he could not legally bring up that dead parent/child conversation. Nor could he bring up Lord de Ros's dead mother-in-law/loathing son-in-law conversation or even Lord Edgefield's dead parent/possibly a tad bonkers child conversation, as they had all been overheard illegally. Even though that adventure in eavesdropping had finally led to him getting to make love to India until the plaster behind her headboard had started to crumble, it was all still illegal, and his possession of the file was extremely illegal. This entire case, whether it lead to convictions for murder or break-ins and destruction of property, was going to be a tough one.

"He was on his way to the lounge," Lady Penelope said, wiping her nose in a very ladylike way. "We had just had breakfast… a late breakfast."

"Did he eat anything unusual?" Sullivan asked. "Something he hadn't eaten before?"

"No. Same breakfast as always. A soft-boiled egg and most of a bottle of whisky, with orange juice."

Sullivan wrote 'check liver' and 'repulsive breakfast' on his notepad. "Did he have any known heart issues?" he asked mildly.

"No."

"Any complaints of chest pains or stomach problems before today?"

"No. He was always healthy. Or healthy enough for a dipsomaniac. He was an alcoholic. Full-blown tippler. Never mean, of course. Just perpetually drunk."

"And did you ever do anything to help him overcome his drinking problem?"

"Inspector, my husband and I ceased living together as man and wife ten years ago, after I had a miscarriage. Thus ends the de Ros family line." She leaned forward and poured herself a glass of gin. "I suppose that's quite a shame."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," Sullivan said, eyeing her as she poured. Her hand didn't tremble at all. Most people would be shaking after losing a spouse, but not this Afghan hound in a knit dress and weird-looking mesh hat. "It is a shame." He cleared his throat. "Was he on any type of medication?"

"No."

"So his only health issue was drinking too much," Sullivan scribbled on his notepad, pretending to write her answers, but instead he wrote 'Check finances. Autopsy needed. Wife behavior not normal'.

Lady Penelope drew in her breath, and he noted that it wasn't the shaky breath of a grieving widow. It was a businesslike 'let's get on with it' kind of breath. "The de Ros family has a tradition that I must follow, of course. Immediate burial. No frills, either." She took a long draught of her gin, not even blinking as it burned its way down. "He'll be interred at St. Matthew's in Carleigh day after tomorrow. It will not be a public ceremony, either. Entirely private. Family only. No autopsy. I saw him clutch at his chest. He had a heart attack. Simple as that."

"Of course, ma'am," he said, standing up. "Thank you. We'll see ourselves out."

Sullivan and Goodfellow walked out of Boxwood, and Sullivan put his hat back on, staring up at the gray sky. "Are we sure her name is Penelope and not Lucretzia?"

Goodfellow snickered and they walked back to the car. "It does seem very strange. Something just isn't right there, sir. Are you going to order an autopsy anyway?"

"I can't without probable cause, and so far it's her word against… no one's. There's no good reason for an autopsy yet."

Goodfellow shook his head. "Why no one besides family for the funeral then?"

"Tradition, I guess. We had no such traditions in my family, though I have heard of people dancing with the corpse at some Sullivan wakes. Sounds like there was no family besides her." Sullivan blew out his cheeks, shivering in the cold.

"That would be sad, though, wouldn't it? To drop dead and have no one come to your funeral. How would you feel about that, sir?"

"Well, personally, I think being dead would be the bigger disappointment."

He was about to get in the car when he heard the front door of the house open, and turned back to see Lord Edgefield coming down the steps, trying hard to look casual. "Inspector Sullivan… a word?"

"Yes, Your Lordship?"

"Er… well… Happy New Year and all that and my sister's first husband died this way, too. Sudden heart attack, no prior history of heart trouble. Glad to see some sunshine, eh?"

"Uh… yes, sir," Sullivan answered, studying the Earl. "Do you suspect your sister… "

"I could never look at myself in the mirror if I didn't mention it and I do hope you have a fine year, sir, with as little crime as possible in the Kembleford environs and do send Her Highness my best wishes. Ta-ra!" After shaking Sullivan's hand, Edgefield trotted away, heading toward the stables. The Inspector and Goodfellow looked at each other, both more than a little befuddled, but it was another, possibly helpful clue.

Perhaps Mummy's good little boy had more to him than Sullivan originally thought.

* * *

"Father Brown, did you cycle all the way out here from town?" India asked, aghast, when she opened the door and found the cleric standing on her doorstep. "Get in here and let's get you warmed up!"

"Thank you so much, Your Highness."

"Stop calling me that. I'm just India. Now. I know I have a hot water bottle around here somewhere—your feet will need warming up, too. Warm feet and a warm head keeps chills at bay. I'll be right back. Make yourself at home."

"Thank you… India." He was happy to sit down in a chair by the fire, and was startled when a furry white puppy came bounding into the room and immediately began trying to jump into his lap. "Oh dear... "

India came rushing in. "Get out, Snoozy. He'll have your cassock white with fur in a few minutes! Go on, you little demon. Out! Scat! Andale!" She shooed the dog away, and Brown was helpless to stop India from removing his shoes and putting the hot water bottle under his feet. The warmth from the fire and the chill fading from his toes was wonderful, and he sighed. He was even more delighted when she handed him a plate laden with pumpkin pie, which had a sinful dollop of whipped cream on top. He took a bite and closed his eyes.

"Oh Good Lord, this is delicious!"

"Thank you. It's so nice to see you again, sir. Happy New Year! How are you?"

"Very well. I… understand you were in London until this morning?"

"Yes. Well, until last night. I…" she looked around the room, drawing a deep breath. "Inspector Sullivan's father died and he called me, so… "

"Oh, my. Is he all right?"

"He's doing all right, from what I can tell. Typical Scots-Irish sort. Not so much a stiff upper lip, but saying very little and still holding a good bit in, though… though he did… er… release some of his… sorrow." She cleared her throat. "I take it you're here with some information about my tunnels?"

"Yes, indeed. One of the burglars… or whatever you might call him… was named Scroggins. He has a brother who is also in the cells at Kembleford constabulary."

"And?" she asked. She poured him some tea, and he took an appreciative sip. Even her tea was superior, though he suspected it was the same kind Mrs. McCarthy made. Maybe the older woman was right—maybe India was some sort of a food witch.

"Well, Horatio Scroggins and Bernard Scroggins were both previously employed as beaters at the de Ros family estate near Carleigh. I only learned this a while ago, after speaking with Bernard again."

She sat back in her seat. "So they both knew Lord de Ros."

"Yes."

"Have you spoken with Inspector Sullivan?"

"No. And here's the rub, India… Lord de Ros dropped dead of an apparent heart attack this morning. Probably about an hour ago."

"Not Lady Penelope?"

"Eh?"

"I… uh… Lord de Ros was apparently keen on killing his mother-in-law, or at least he sounded that way… of course, he was drunk. She died before he could get around to it, anyway. Sullivan was a bit concerned for Lady Penelope's safety, but… considering we learned about it… "

"Illegally."

"Right," she said, giving him a narrow look. "But as it was illegally obtained information, we can't very well make it public or Sullivan's career is ruined. Plus he has that file… also obtained illegally."

Brown smiled. "Yes. And can you believe he has shared its contents with me?"

"Has he? Well. Don't that beat a hen a-peckin'! So what do we do?"

"I'm afraid we will have to keep out of the way and let Inspector Sullivan sniff out the killer in a completely above-board manner. We have no proof yet, of course, that Lady Penelope was involved—it may well have been a heart attack, after all. But if she did have her husband killed… "

"He'll figure it out," India said softly.

"Yes." Brown took another sip of his tea. "Er… " His plate was empty, and she raised her eyebrows.

"Would you like some lunch, Father Brown? I have some ham, black-eyed peas, coleslaw, cornbread and more pumpkin pie. The ham and black-eyed peas comes from the post-Civil War years, according to what my grandmother told me: the Yankees burned all our crops and stole all the cows-and frankly anything else that wasn't nailed down-so we only had wild hogs and black-eyed peas left to eat, and so we Southerners eat the stuff every New Years' Day. I'm not sure where the coleslaw comes from, but at least it's not sauerkraut. I can't make myself make that stuff. It smells like… well, I won't say what it smells like. But anyway, once you eat I'll have Duncan drive you home."

Brown had no idea what black-eyed peas tasted like, but he knew they would be heavenly. "Sounds marvelous, India!"

* * *

"Sir, the princess called. Says she'd like a call back later, if you can," Barnstable called to Sullivan as he came in.

All the men eyed their commanding officer, watching for his reaction. None of them was going to mention Lannigan seeing the princess leaving his cottage early that morning, and they had all agreed to keep the issue quiet. They knew he was a private man, and as he was always fair with them, they had to be fair in turn. Just the same—it was hard for them all to wrap their minds around the idea of Princess India von Altburg spending the night with Sullivan. Then again, they could sort of imagine him pursuing her… but to get that far?

"Yes, thank you, Barnstable," Sullivan muttered, going through his messages. He saw one from Father Brown. "He visited Scroggins?" he said, holding up the card.

"Yes, sir."

Sullivan sorted through the remaining messages, seeing one from Lydia. It was a simple 'Thank you' note. He would have to call her later, to make sure her sons had indeed arrived, but he wasn't going to intrude on her life any more than she might require. There was another from the funeral parlor, asking him if he wanted any of the flowers.

"We were all very sorry to hear of your father's death, sir," Barnstable said. "Is there… er… anything we can… "

"Call this number and tell them to send the nicer-looking flowers to the Royal London Hospital—no lilies, though," he said, handing the card from the funeral parlor back to Barnstable.

"Yes, sir."

He absently scratched the back of his head, thinking. "That's all for now." He went into his office and closed the door, got the file out of the drawer and opened it up, then called Father Brown. The priest was extremely enlightening about the Scroggins brothers' prior employment at Carleigh, and that they appeared to have been familiar with both Lord de Ros and his wife. He informed the priest of Lady Penelope's previous husband's death, which the priest found extremely intriguing. All of that put question marks all over Sullivan's notepad, but at least now he now had two good, legally usable leads. He called Barnstable in and told him to verify the information about the two brothers and to get him the number to the Carleigh constabulary.

As soon as he rang off with Constable Llewellyn (whose Welsh accent made him almost impossible to understand) at Carleigh, Sullivan called India. The phone rang twice and Duncan answered. "'allo, Guv'na!"

"Er… yes. Is… the princess available?"

"Oy, she's right 'ere, with 'er 'ead in 'e oven."

There was the sound of a scuffle, a cry of pain and Duncan wailing 'I can't believe you kicked me!' and finally India came on the line. "I'm sorry about that. He's an idiot sometimes."

"His Cockney is awful."

"I know. I figure if you're going to parlo the lingo, you should savvy it first. Duncan… get out or you get no black-eyed peas!"

"Who and the what and the huh?"

"Never mind. How has your day gone so far?"

"A bit better. Got some leads."

"Yes, and to that end, I hear Lord de Ros shuffled off this mortal coil this morning. Father Brown was just here, and Duncan is fixing to take him home, and he told me all."

"Yes, that would be the gist of it, and the source of my first workable lead. Not only that, Bert Scroggins and his brother Horatio both worked as beaters on Lord de Ros's estate and Lady Penelope's first husband dropped dead of a heart attack, just like the unfortunate Lord de Ros."

"Oh my, that is fascinating, isn't it? Well… um… perhaps you could come over this evening for supper and further discussion of these two leads? Around six o'clock?"

He glanced at the door, glad the glass in the window was frosted. "Should I bring something?"

"How about a cheeky Bordeaux?"

"All I have is a depressing bottle of Scotch whisky."

"Sounds perfect. Also, bring some… er… _items_."

"You want me to stay?"

Her voice lowered to a breathy little whisper. "Do you want to stay, Inspector?"

"Are you kidding? What… what about your sons, and your brother?" he asked, feeling his temperature rising.

"If need be, I can spike Duncan's tea with whisky, and my sons are required to be in bed at nine, without exception, and they aren't allowed to come into my room at night unless they're bleeding or on fire." She drew in her breath in a way that made Sullivan's mouth water. "I need you, Alexander. I'm aching. Last night was… so wonderful, and this morning… mmm… so lovely. I'm surprised my eyes aren't still rolled back in my head."

He almost dropped the phone. He rubbed his eyes, trying to calm himself down. "I'll be there," he said thickly, barely able to keep his brain going. Good God, he was going to need a cold shower to get through the rest of this day.

"I can hardly wait. I love you," she whispered and rang off. He sat, holding the phone to his chest, and stared straight ahead, remembering how she had looked in his bed—partially covered, purring softly as he sketched her in pastels on charcoal-colored paper—soft pinks and creamy whites, her dark hair in silky browns with chestnut highlights, her lips rosy and swollen from hot kisses, and her breasts had been…

"Sir, Mr. Palladino is wantin' to charge his wife and Mrs. Moretti with assault and battery," Goodfellow said. Sullivan hadn't heard him knock.

Sullivan hung the phone up and remained seated. God knew he couldn't stand up now. "Right. Er… of course. I'll sign off on it. He's coming in?"

"Yes, sir. All black and blue."

"Good. Right. Fine."

Goodfellow paused, studying him for a moment. "Are you all right, sir?"

"I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

"You look… well, sir… you look very… er… different."

Sullivan nodded vaguely, and Goodfellow closed the door. Sullivan scrambled for his sketchpad and drew a charcoal etching of India's face. He employed a good bit of Charles Dana Gibson's style to capture her expressive, heart-shaped face and her sweet, always smiling mouth and perfect chin. Her brows arched over long eyelashes, and her slightly almond-shaped eyes were a shade of blue that turned violet when angered or aroused. Her nose was perfect and turned up at the tip, giving her a slightly mischievous look. She had a few freckles across her cheeks, and they added youthful charm to her expression. That kind of face would age gracefully, and she would always be beautiful.

He loved her. Fiercely, protectively, faithfully, and with his whole heart.

And that absolutely terrified him.


	14. Chapter 14

Sullivan wasn't at all surprised to find himself incredibly nervous when he arrived at Applecross.

He was under the Collins family microscope tonight, for certain. He already got on well enough with India's brothers, but he had had one encounter with her sons so far and that had been as the result of 'non-criminal child/adolescent mischief' (as per the official title of the now-lost paperwork involved). He hadn't noted any clear signs of hostility from either boy, but at the time, he hadn't been sleeping with their mother. Not that he figured she had told them about _that_ , but…

India opened the door, startling him, and he stared at her, momentarily stunned. She was wearing a Chanel 'little black dress'—sleek, sexy and strapless—and stiletto heels, and around her neck was a choker of pearls. The tiny bluebonnet he had given her graced the middle bustline of her dress, in a spot he was now very, very familiar with and had fallen asleep on a few times already. It was his favorite, in fact…

"It's so good to see you," she said quickly, and then kissed him. He forgot all about her sons and her brothers and frankly just wanted to get her upstairs and into her bed. But she pulled away far too quickly and more or less dragged him into the house. He almost dropped the flowers he had brought her, and she snatched them before they fell. She took the bottle of Glenlevit and stood staring at him, clutching the flowers to her chest. "Good Lord, you look delicious."

"So do you," he finally managed.

"Well, dessert will be later tonight," she whispered, and turned as her two sons came rumbling down the stairs. Both looked neat and orderly, but something told him that achieving such a level of spic'n'span had to have involved a great deal of bribery and possibly even threats. They both stopped at the bottom of the stairs and stared up at him.

"You're Mummy's… friend," the older boy—blond, grey-eyed, fair-skinned and sturdy—said.

"He's Mummy's boyfriend," the younger said. He was dark-haired and had his mother's blue eyes.

The two boys stared up at him, and India finally stepped between them and Sullivan. "Supper's almost ready. Perhaps you could help set the table?"

"Uh… sure." He followed her and the boys down the hall and into the kitchen. Sullivan looked around the enormous room, still thinking it was a woman-killer. In fact, the whole house was a woman-killer, and he wondered if and when she would hire servants. Instead, the only help she had right now was her brother Duncan, who was pulling a round pan of some golden bread out of the oven. The young man looked pleased with himself as he tested the bread with a long metal pin.

"Perfect! Ah, there you are, Inspector. Happy New Year!"

"Er… thanks. Happy New Year to you."

India handed Sullivan a stack of plates and he settled them on the table, on placemats. The two little boys scrambled into the kitchen to collect silverware and glasses and got to work arranging everything on the table, and India put Sullivan's bouquet of roses in a vase. Sullivan took them, set them on the center of the table, and watched as she carried a large platter laden with slow-cooked Virginia ham to the table and carefully set it down. Duncan followed with a bowl of black-eyed peas and bread, which he had flipped over onto a plate. Once everything was arranged on the table, everyone sat down and India tapped her brother's hand and said "Grace".

Once the blessing was said, Duncan began expertly carving the ham and putting slices on Sullivan's plate, then India's, then his own and finally the boys (according to age, no less). Black-eyed peas and coleslaw was then dispensed, and the boys tucked eagerly into their meal. India cut the golden bread into a pie-shapes and gave everybody a piece. "My own cornbread isn't quite as good as Clare's, I'm afraid."

"Well, I made it this time," Duncan said, winking at her.

"Then I hope you have your affairs in order, Alex," India said, cutting her cornbread apart and applying butter to each steaming-hot, yellow-gold slice.

"Hey, hey, bad form!" Duncan said, feigning offense. "My cornpone may not have won prizes, but it does the trick."

Sullivan was too dazed to respond. The ham was amazing, the black-eyed peas were unusual but delicious, the coleslaw was sweet and seemed to have apples in it, and the cornbread had a texture to it that he was not accustomed to, but it still tasted good. He made no objection when Duncan refilled his plate. The boys munched away, keeping quiet and well-behaved but they were allowed to take part in the conversation. India seemed amused and pleased that everyone was enjoying their meal.

"We have pumpkin pie for dessert," she said, when everyone had eaten their fill. "With whipped cream. Would anyone like some coffee?"

"I do!" Max said excitedly.

"Certainly not," India answered firmly. "You get no coffee 'til you're at least fifteen."

"Oh, Mummy, come on… "

"Mind your mother," Sullivan said. Everyone looked at him, startled, and he paled a little. "Er… sorry. But… you should mind her."

"Indeed," Duncan said, sopping up black-eyed pea drippings with his cornbread. "You can't be a good man if you're not good to your Mama, Maximillian."

Chastised, Max returned to his cornbread. India got a bottle of black molasses and poured some on Sebastian's cornbread, murmuring softly to him to not gobble. "He loves molasses," she said with a smile. The boy eagerly ate his cornbread, and Sullivan watched him, amazed that someone so small could pack in so much food. When India came back to the table with coffee cups and a steaming pot, she poured cups out for the men, gently tousled Max's hair and sat again.

"Do you mind your mother?" Max asked suddenly, looking up at Sullivan. There was no anger in his expression—just open curiosity.

"Um… well, my mother… died. When I was very young."

"Oh. Do you mind your father?"

"Maximillian… " India said softly, looking apologetically at Sullivan.

"He died recently," Sullivan finally answered, sipping his coffee.

"Of what?" Sebastian asked.

"Boys," India said gently. "Go play in the lounge until time for dessert."

The children recognized that tone, and so did Sullivan. It meant 'shut your yaps and scram'. They both jumped down, said thank you for the meal and skittered out.

Sullivan took another sip of his coffee. Duncan shook his head. "They're great kids. They just turn into KGB interrogators sometimes, particularly around people they find fascinating. Drives me nuts, but they never mean any harm. I was sorry to hear of your loss, Inspector."

"Er… thanks. I guess that officially I'm an orphan now."

Duncan nodded. "Yeah. I know the feeling. You lose a parent, you might as well be eight."

"They like you," India said softly. "When they don't like someone, they refuse to speak unless I force them."

Sullivan swallowed, some of his nerves settling. He glanced uneasily at Duncan, who grinned at him.

"So let's see here… the Scroggins brothers worked for Lord de Ros, and he kicked the bucket just this morning… and Lady Penelope's first husband died in the same manner?" Duncan asked. "A bit hinky, eh?"

"Hinky?" Sullivan asked, brow furrowed.

"Suspicious."

"Why not just say 'suspicious'?" India asked her brother, who rolled his eyes.

"Oh, great. The Language Police again!" he said with a laugh. "Anyway, I would find that very odd myself. Who was her first husband?"

"Haven't quite got that. We can only assume he was also a member of the peerage or at least the landed gentry," Sullivan said. "I can't see Lady Penelope marrying anybody ranked lower than at least a Baron."

"Me neither. I've met her a couple of times," Duncan said, shaking his head. "Unpleasant at best and downright nasty at worst. We ran into her and her husband in London, and she flirted with poor Lock, with her husband five feet away and Lock married… though he didn't tell anybody else about that." He sighed. "A strange business, this tunnels thing is, I say. If I don't find out what's buried out there, I might go loopy. Oh, and David is due out here Friday. He would have come sooner but he's taking Andrew back to Eton and wants to spend some time there with him."

"So you'll be around here at all times until then?" Sullivan asked. "I won't have India or her children unprotected—not with those tunnels still unexplored."

"You can bet I won't let her get a scratch," Duncan said with a laugh. "Though we both know she can drop a fellow with one blow, can't ya sis?"

"In most cases," India said, blushing. "It's not like I just smack men around. That's rude."

"So you're a feminist with good manners?" Sullivan asked, smirking a little.

"In a manner of speaking," she said softly. "I firmly believe a girl should know how to fend for herself, but I still believe raising a child is more important than any kind of 'career'. As if motherhood isn't a career in and of itself, and it's far more rewarding, at least to me, and ten times as exhausting. I want to raise my babies and… well, take care of my home, and I don't like other people feeding them, that's for sure." She looked at Sullivan, who was watching her, expression curious. "My family will always come first."

Duncan didn't miss them staring at each other, and he cleared his throat.

"Well. I'm goin' out tonight. I haven't really explored Kembleford much yet, and I'm curious about the local female population. Any lookers about?"

Sullivan was still staring at India, and he wasn't interested in seeking any other woman out again—they were invisible to him these days. She smiled at him, blushing into her coffee cup.

"Uh… none that I… can immediately recall," Sullivan finally answered.

"Well, I suppose that's good, considering you're… uh… with my sister." Duncan drank down the last of his coffee and took it to the sink, rinsing it out. "I think I'll skip dessert, Indigo, and head on to town. I doubt I'll be back any time… er… soon." He looked between Sullivan and India, noting that they were still staring at each other, bemused, and he shook his head. "Just the same, Sullivan… remember our little talk while we were shovelin' that snow."

India glared up at her brother, but Sullivan wasn't easily cowed. "Don't worry. I only intend to tie her up, not beat her."

She burst into laughter, and her brother put on his hat and strode out of the room, looking not so much disgruntled as defeated. When he closed the door, she settled back in her chair, still giggling.

"What time is it?" Sullivan asked, tugging at his collar.

"It's barely seven."

"Damn."

"It's not like we have a timeline here, Alex."

"Well, I'm sure any two healthy boys would object to being dragged to bed two hours early, and we can't very well… you know… have at it here on the table. Not while your boys are still expecting dessert."

"True." She took his cup and hers and carried them into the kitchen. "But then you know I'm rather adventurous."

"Yes, and you have no idea how happy I was to learn that you're so uninhibited… and old-fashioned."

That got him a little smirk. "A housewife can be old-fashioned and still strive to satisfy her man, and I'm a one-man woman." She sat down in his lap, and he caressed her thigh, loving her silky skin. "Remember when we made love in here?" she whispered, softly trailing a line of kisses along his jaw.

"India… I… " he swallowed, and she paused, looking at him, brow furrowed.

"Yes? Is something wrong? I know I'm being awfully forward, but… well, I've always been rather forward, when it came to you."

"I just… wanted to tell you… how much I love you. I'm not in this for just the sex, though God knows that would almost be enough, but I want more than just… that." He swallowed, gathering up his nerve as best he could. "I… adore you. That empty space with the lousy view… it's… my heart. The heart that you own, even though I'm still made of metal and ice… " She touched his cheek, smoothing away worry and fear, and kissed him deeply, and he finally pulled back a little, drawing deep breaths. "You've owned me since the day we met. I fell for you then… I never could get you out of my head or… and now, for you to… be so willing… "

"I was too young then," she said softly. "Inexperienced."

"Right."

"I have a good bit more experience now," she said, kissing him softly and feeling him tremble. She looked into his eyes, fingertips tracing along the lines from the corners of his eyes and down to his mouth. "Fritz and I had a happy marriage. I have no regrets about him. My only regrets are in regard to you, and how I should have behaved. I should have told you my age, right from the start, but… well, yesterday is dead. Fritz and I said what we needed to say to each other before he died, and we were devoted to each other throughout our marriage, and we had two wonderful sons together, and I think I made him happy, and he was an excellent husband. I never told him about you, of course…"

He took several deep breaths, reining in his emotions with great difficulty, and she waited. He felt slightly drained. He had been going through the motions for the past decade—even the very few women he had been with during that time had noticed his distraction and disinterest in them. Fortunately for him, they had been as much in need of some degree of physical satisfaction, too, and hadn't seemed terribly offended. When those brief relationships had ended, they had ended, with no hard feelings. Openly handing her his heart had been difficult and terrifying, and he could only hope his faith in her was justified, because if she rejected him, he wasn't sure he would survive

"Are you actually thinking I'm going to end this?" she asked softly. "That I would… just abandon you?"

He pursed his lips, then shrugged helplessly. "I'm not used to having anyone, and I'm certainly no catch."

"Stop being silly," she said, kissing him again. "I happen to have enjoyed letting you chase me until I could catch you. Like it or not, you're stuck with me, Inspector, and I _quite_ enjoy melting your ice."

* * *

"Mummy's a great cook," Max said. "She can even made vegetables taste good."

Sullivan's mouth quirked a little. "Well, that is an art, because I hate spinach. But I've had her spinach and it does taste good."

After consuming their dessert, everyone had piled into the lounge, India and Sullivan on the sofa, the boys on the floor. The children played with their Christmas presents—fire engines and toy trains and cap pistols—while India sipped some wine. Sullivan eschewed any alcohol, preferring to be sharp for later. When she started to pour another glass, he stopped her, shaking his head slightly. He suspected she would be quite fun while drunk, but he preferred her sober just the same.

One of India's Christmas presents, from David, had been a television, and Sullivan eyed the monstrous thing suspiciously. He couldn't imagine anyone wanting to sit around staring at a box for hours on end, trying to decipher what was being said or done on a tiny, flickering screen. But India decided to give it a try. She got out the manual, read through the instructions, and finally got up and cautiously turned it on. For a moment, there was a strange kind of hissing sound and the tiny screen began showing an image. What the image was, none of them could quite determine.

"I know! It's a… a play!" India said excitedly.

Everyone watched, bewildered, as a young man—apparently some kind of office clerk who had suffered a blow to the head—blithered about in what sounded like Shakespearean poetry and prose as part of his day-to-day conversation. His friends and relatives were all bewildered by it, and Sullivan suspected that eventually he would be committed to an asylum.

"So far, he's gone from _Hamlet_ to _As You Like It_ to _The Taming of the Shrew_ ," Sullivan said, after a few minutes of bewildered listening. "He hasn't made any sense so far. Then again… I have to admit, sometimes Shakespeare didn't make much sense to me on his own, though his insults are excellent for when you aren't allowed to curse at someone. 'Thou cullionly plume-plucked scullian!' and 'Thou vain lily-livered hedge-pig!' or 'Thou wilt be as valiant as the wrathful dove, or most magnanimous mouse'. I got in trouble for all three back in school, but it was rather nice to see my Irish-hating English teacher scrabbling about trying to find out what they meant." He smiled at the memory.

"And people are paying money for these things?" India asked. "I mean, I'm grateful to David for getting it for me… but right now, it's only good for displaying bud vases."

"How much did he spend on it?" Sullivan asked, eyeing the flickering screen. The sound was muffled, and the image kept flickering about. Watching too long had made him feel vaguely seasick. Frankly, he would stick to listening to the wireless.

"I'm not going to ask him how much he spent!" India gasped, appalled.

"True. You can't look a new television in the tubes," Sullivan asked, perusing the instruction book. "Frankly, I'm not entirely sure if television is even possible. From what we've just seen, it can't see it ever improving."

India laughed and took the manual from him. "Forget it. Maximillian, please turn it off. It's time for bed."

The boys didn't argue. They went upstairs to brush their teeth and wash their faces, and came back down to kiss their mother goodnight. They shook hands with Sullivan, and then Sebastian asked the £50 question.

"Are you going to sleep over, Instek… Inspector Sullivan?"

India froze briefly, and Sullivan glanced at her. "Er… well, it's… not good weather for driving this time of night. So if your mother has room… "

Maximillian grabbed his brother's hand. "Come on, Sebby. Mummy's old enough for a sleepover!"

"But Mummy's a girl and he's…"

"Mummy's not a girl!" Max snapped, dragging his brother out of the room. "She's Mummy!"

The sliding doors were smacked back together and Sullivan cleared his throat. "Well, at least he doesn't think you're _a_ mummy."

"Well, I must admit, this cold weather does dry my skin out horribly," India said with a sigh.

"I never noticed that," he said, smiling at she climbed into his lap and kissed him. She undid his tie and threw it behind the couch, then she hurriedly undid his shirt.

"Oh, God, I need you now," she whispered against his mouth. She grew frustrated by the buttons on his shirt and finally just tore it open, scattering buttons against the wall as she kissed him fiercely.

He pulled the zipper down on her dress and helped her wriggle out of it, and greatly appreciated her black knickers and garter belts, which held up her silk stockings—Betty Grable had nothing on her, that was for sure. She climbed back astride him, and he pulled her down into his arms, whispering all the delightful things he intended to do to her. He caught the gleam in her eyes and she told him a few of her own ideas, which made him blush—this outwardly prim, elegant woman had a truly wicked side to her, and he couldn't get enough of her, prim or wild.

"I love you," he said softly, removing the pins from her hair and reverently kissing a dark, silky lock.

"I love you," she whispered back. "Let's go to bed."

* * *

"You are the _perfect_ lover," she said, resting her head on his chest and idly caressing him.

He yawned, exhausted and sated for the time being. "So are you."

"Oh?" She sat up, kneeling beside him. "Did you like that… "

"Loved it. Wore me out, but I loved it."

"Mmm… I think I'm becoming a sex fiend. I can't get enough, and… " she sighed. "Alexander?"

His eyes were closed and his breathing had steadied and slowed. She gently kissed his lips, whispered her love to him, and settled down beside him, curling up, warm and happy.

She felt like she ought to be ashamed of herself for being so wanton—she had encouraged him to do things to her that Fritz had likely never even heard of. During her marriage, she had never walked around naked, even in the privacy of their bedroom, but now she had no qualms whatsoever about being naked around her lover, and enticing Sullivan into taking her against the wall or against a table or in the shower delighted and excited her. She loved his quiet, controlled side, but his wildness and passion was beyond description.

If she ever got back to Paris and found that bookstore again, she was definitely going to buy that little book and show him what interested her, and then she would insist on him picking out what interested him.

India was about to fall asleep when suddenly she heard the phone ringing downstairs. "Bloody hell!" she whispered, scrambling out of bed and searching for her silk robe. She was relieved to see that he was still asleep, and finally found the robe. She fought her way into it and rushed downstairs, hoping whoever was calling had something of great importance to tell her, otherwise she was going to kill them. And if it was Duncan calling to ask her to come bail him out of gaol, she would be in prison herself shortly thereafter.

"Hello?"

"Er… Your Highness? This is… er… Sergeant Goodfellow. Is… um… Inspector Sullivan… there?"

Oh, this was just peachy. She didn't know if Goodfellow was a gossip, but she knew human nature well enough. Their affair was bound to be virtual front-page news in Kembleford, and while she was used to seeing her name in the paper (particularly after the Hohenzollern incident… good heavens, custard could be so messy!), she knew Alex was not prepared to be gossiped about.

"Um… yes. I'll get him," she said, put the receiver down and rushed upstairs. She started shaking Sullivan, and he finally sat up, gasping.

"What, what?!"

"Sergeant Goodfellow is on the phone."

"Who?"

"Sergeant Goodfellow!"

"Oh… right. Uh… where are my trousers?"

India searched around and finally found them at the foot of the bed. She had undressed him, and then had tried something she had never done before. God knew he had appreciated it, and what he had done to her afterwards had left her feeling faint and dizzy and demanding more. She sat down on the bed, shivering in the cold as he dressed and rushed out of the room, and she sighed when she heard him bang his knee on the table by the sofa.

Finally, she headed downstairs after checking to see that her sons had slept through all the racket, and listened to one side of the conversation.

"When?" He paused, thinking, then began rubbing his temple. "Bloody hell… how did anyone get past the guard? I see. Is he all right? Ten stitches… damn… all right, have Horatio Scroggins moved out of the cells and to a safer place, but don't tell him yet. Don't let anyone know you're moving him, either. Yes, I'll be there… uh… soon. Right. All right." He hung up and looked at India. "Bert Scroggins is dead. Hung in his cell."

"Oh no," she whispered.

"Someone knocked the night guard out—poor man will need ten stitches in his skull, but he'll be all right. No one believes Scroggins did himself in. He hated the food there, but that didn't make him suicidal. By all accounts he was a fairly chipper fellow."

"Yes… "

"I have to go, India."

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

"I know. Maybe you can come back in the afternoon?"

"I'll see. I have to question a few officers and speak with the coroner."

"I understand."

"Do you?"

"I'm involved with a cop. I have to accept these kinds of things. Not that I think it'll be easy."

He sighed and kissed her, and India sighed softly when he embraced her, cradling her in his arms, squeezing her tight and making her almost weep when he let go of her and left, heading upstairs to dress. She staggered to the sofa, pulling her robe tightly around herself, and he appeared in the doorway again. "I'll call you when I know something."

"Please be careful," she said, wiping tears from her eyes.

"I will."

"I'm serious, Alex. Please be careful. If something happened to you... "

"I will be."

"This… this will be complicated, won't it? Your work and its dangers, and my… position. Should I call myself your lover, your mistress… what?"

"Well… " he ran a hand through his hair. "Well, I belong to you—you even bought me. So… I'm yours and… you're mine?"

That made her feel better. "Yes. I am yours. And you are mine. When someone asks, I'll just say 'He's mine, so hands off'."

He grinned at her, and her heart skipped a beat, and she smiled back. He went out, and she curled up on the sofa—where they had consummated a love that had refused to fade away for almost a decade, and would now require special care and feeding. Aside from the intense physical pleasure they experienced together, this was not a love affair between two inexperienced and unschooled youths—it was a man and a woman, grown-up, cognizant of their responsibilities and aware of how the world might react. This time, however, India was independent and did not have to bend to anyone else's will about her destiny. Just the same, she had to take her sons into account, as well as her own reputation and Sullivan's. He might think he was made of metal and ice, but she knew differently-there was a fragility to him that she knew would need very careful handling.

Sighing softly, she got up and went back upstairs. She climbed into bed and lay down, blinking against the first rays of sunlight coming through the window, and saw something sparkling on the bedside table. She found the source of the light—a small gold ring, with fine filigree etching all around and the initials 'IM' and 'AS' on the inside. A small diamond flashed in the light, and she held it up, admiring it, then carefully set it back on the bedside table. She curled up in the bed, using his pillow, and watched the diamond glint and sparkle in the sunlight until she finally fell asleep.

* * *

Bernard Scroggins' autopsy report was ready by the time Sullivan arrived at the station (he had had to rush by his cottage to change and shave). Dustings for fingerprints yielded only constables, the regular guards, Father Brown's, Scroggins, and his own, so obviously the killer had worn gloves—hardly surprising. The guard was still in hospital, suffering a cracked skull and a concussion. Sullivan instructed a constable to go over and tell the man he wasn't to blame, then searched the cell carefully, flipping the mattress on the cot over and found a small piece of cloth. A quick whiff told him all—the piece of linen was soaked in chloroform.

"Hard to hang yourself when you're unconscious," he told Barnstable, who bagged the evidence. "His brother has been moved?"

"Yes, sir. He's in Gloucester now."

"See he has a guard at his door at all times, and I want to interview him as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir," Barnstable said, swallowing. "Peters is a good man. Whoever attacked him had to have been pretty determined."

"Yes." Sullivan rubbed his eyes, weary from his rather busy night. "Bernard Scroggins wasn't talking much. He only let it slip that he had worked for Lady de Ros a few years ago, on her late husband's estate in Carleigh. I believe Lord de Ros is being buried out there tomorrow."

"Yes, sir. I figure the ground was a bit too hard, but now they're probably able to dig. Either that, or they'll need dynamite."

"Right. There's still no evidence of foul play in his death. Damn… " He rubbed his forehead. "It's quite hinky."

"What?" Barnstable asked, as they headed back upstairs.

"Er… suspicious. Suspicion isn't proof of anything, of course, but I think it's time to make the Scroggins brothers' previous employment with the de Ros family public knowledge. Also call the coroner and tell them to stop any interment of Lord de Ros that might be in the process and get his body here to Kembleford. We're doing an autopsy. Also, have Goodfellow find out who Lady de Ros was married to before, and where he's buried."

"Yes, sir!"

* * *

"Wait a minute… she was married to de Ros's older brother?!" Sullivan stared down at the paper Goodfellow had slapped down on his desk. He read the file quickly—Lady Penelope had indeed been married to Lord Alfred de Ros fifteen years before, and within just a year of his death, she had married Lord Reginald.

"Lord Alfred's buried at Carleigh," Goodfellow said.

It was almost noon, his stomach was growling—he had skipped breakfast, knowing India would get on to him about that—and Sullivan sat back in his chair, his rib aching a little. "Call Sir George Hicks-Beech and tell him I need an exhumation order for Lord Alfred, and another order for an autopsy of Lord Reginald."

"Sir George Hicks-Beech? He's a pretty high-up fellow, isn't he?"

"His son was arrested last year for driving too _slow_ while intoxicated. It was his first offense, he injured no one, and has been on the straight and narrow since. He paid a fine and spent a night in gaol, which was more than fair, and Sir George didn't even throw a fit when I left the mark in the boy's record. Just the same, he's at Oxford now. Sir George was grateful that I showed mercy to the young man, and he said he owed me one. Let's just say I'm calling in a favor."

"Very good, sir," Goodfellow said, nodding. "Er… I was… sorry to have… er… had to call… I mean, I called your cottage first, but you weren't there and so I… er… called the princess's number… "

"Out, Goodfellow."

"Yes, sir." Cowed, Goodfellow rushed away. Sullivan sighed and loosened his tie, then removed his coat and rolled his sleeves up. He was thinking about what he might get for lunch when there was a light knock on the door.

"Come in!"

India poked her head in the door. "Inspector?"

"Oh. Hello."

She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. "I brought you some lunch. A nice chicken sandwich, potato salad, some steamed carrots and chocolate cake for dessert."

Good God, she looked so gorgeous he wondered if she was even legal. She looked luscious in that warm-looking but incredibly sexy camel-colored dress that seemed to wrap around her, like a coat, and was likely very easy to remove. She settled a small picnic basket to his right, then hopped up to sit on the end of the desk, displaying those beautiful legs. He stood, succumbing to temptation far too easily, and kissed her gratefully, instinctively moving between her thighs. She started undoing his tie, but he gently stopped her. "Not here," he said firmly, glancing up and making a mental note to get blinds for that window.

She looked a bit petulant, but she seemed to accept his need to be professional on the job. "I also brought sandwiches and cookies for the constables, and I believe they've already inhaled everything. I've never seen food disappear so fast. You'd think they were all starving. Goodfellow threatened to attack another constable and ate a dozen before anyone could stop him."

"You're going to be very popular around here, I see," he said, nibbling on her earlobe as she moved gently against him, making him feverish.

"I only need to be popular with you. But they seemed very excited about the cookies. I'm sure their wives do their best, but… well… mmm… ooh, right there… can you get away this afternoon? If just for a… a quickie?"

"I can't promise it'll be early. I'll probably end up in Gloucester at some point, and I don't believe in quickies."

"Oh." She sighed, kissing him deeply before pulling away and smoothing his mussed hair.

"Didn't Duncan come back home?"

"Yes. About an hour after you left. He had lipstick on his collar."

He snickered. "I guess he found a looker."

"Sounds like him. He's not a ladies' man, but he can charm them." He was surprised when she embraced him, hugging him tightly. "I love you," she whispered. "So much."

He peered down into her eyes. "Is something wrong?"

"No. Nothing at all," she said, smiling at him, but he saw something in her eyes that said something different.

"India, tell me what's wrong. Are you upset… I didn't want to leave this morning, but… "

"Really, it's nothing. I just had to make sure you were all right." She smiled, kissed him again, and left, quietly closing the door behind her. He heard her greeting a few of the constables, who he suspected might follow her out to the car to beg for more food. He sat down, running a hand through his hair, and dug in his pocket for a moment.

Panic set in—the ring wasn't there.

He dug in the other pocket, then in his jacket pockets.

Nothing.

"Sweet Lord in heaven," he whispered, looking around the room, frantic. He looked in his desk drawers, knowing he hadn't put it in there. The last time he had seen it had been…

 _It had been in India's bedroom._

He sat down, needing to calm himself. He had put the ring on the bedside table, after removing the rest of her clothes, in fact, and getting to work at pleasing her the way she had pleased him (and it had felt so damned good and so utterly right to get lost in something besides work and worry and stress and to just love her). If she had seen it this morning, she had to have drawn a conclusion of one kind or another. Perhaps along the lines of 'Why didn't he propose?' or 'He doesn't want to propose and only forgot about the ring entirely' or, God forbid, 'This is a payment for services rendered'.

He rubbed his face, needing desperately to focus on this case but also he had an added complication, in the form of suddenly having what others might call a 'life'.

* * *

Father Brown pedaled fast to get to the constabulary, and was puffing a bit as he started through the door, and he almost knocked Inspector Sullivan over as he was coming out, carrying a small basket. The younger man firmly but politely moved Brown aside as he tried to get to the street. Brown turned back to see the Princess von Altburg's little coup heading back towards Applecross, and Sullivan stood there a moment before turning around again. "How can I help you, Father?"

"I wanted to tell you that I came across a very interesting piece of information yesterday, the archives… "

"About Lady Penelope de Ros's first marriage to Lord de Ros's older brother Alfred? Yes, I learned about that already."

"Did… you? Well."

"I have a few resources, Father."

"Of course! Yes, I… well, it's very interesting."

"Fascinating."

"What sort of connections are you making, Inspector?"

"Not the one I'd like to make right now."

Brown turned back to look up the street, but India's car had turned. He looked back at Sullivan and cleared his throat. "I'm quite aware that you are very fond of the princess, Inspector."

Sullivan closed his eyes, exhaling. "Would you be averse to performing a Protestant wedding ceremony?" he asked.

To say that Brown was shocked was an understatement. He recovered his wits quickly, though. "You've proposed?"

"Not yet, but I accidentally left the ring at her house this morning. She's anything but stupid, so if she's found it I suppose she believes I will… and I want to." Sullivan put his hat on and stepped back into the constabulary and yelled "Goodfellow! Come on, we have to go to Gloucester!"

Brown gave Sullivan a disapproving look, but he more than approved of the idea of Sullivan and India marrying. "I would be delighted to perform the service, Inspector, and would pray for your happiness together… I… uh… when?"

"As soon as I can convince her to marry me, I suppose," Sullivan said. Goodfellow appeared behind him, puffing a bit. "Oh, and Bert Scroggins was murdered in his cell last night. His brother has been moved to Gloucester and I'm on the way there to interview him now."

"Oh… dear… perhaps I could… "

"No, you may not come. With all due respect, Father, I have to keep this above board, considering how I've obtained much of my information to begin with. I'm ordering an exhumation of Lady Penelope's first husband's body and an autopsy on Reginald de Ros. Keep that detail quiet for now; we don't need gossip about it or my relationship with India, and I won't have her talked about. Go home and bone up on Protestant marriage services," Sullivan said as Goodfellow loped by, heading toward the car. "If she accepts, I would want the wedding to be soon. Long engagements are pointless. Hopefully it might be within a week or so. Good afternoon, Father!" He jumped in the car as Goodfellow was backing out, and Father Brown had to move his bicycle out of the way as the sergeant turned the car around and headed off toward Gloucester. He heard Sullivan growl, "No, you can't have half of my sandwich! You've already inhaled a dozen bloody cookies and made Constable Riley cry-he didn't get any!" as the car sped away.

Brown stood no the corner for several moments, happy to see the inspector finally taking the plunge, so to speak, and worried about the developments in the Applecross case. He got back on his bike and pedaled back to the presbytery, pondering all the way.


	15. Chapter 15

Temps in central Texas down into the teens. For the past two days, it's been too cold to type!

* * *

India returned to Applecross in a strangely neutral mood. Duncan was up, though he looked very tired, and he was sitting on the floor in the lounge with her sons, going over the list of supplies they would both need for school. Both boys would be going to school tomorrow, for the first time since leaving Virginia after Thanksgiving, and both needed a bit of brushing up. She was amused when she heard Duncan telling them that while the British didn't speak English particularly well, they should be tolerant and try to get along as best they could. He told Maximillian to look out for his little brother and for Sebastian to not be afraid to have fun and be silly. "You're kids. Be kids. You've got years before you have to start developing stomach ulcers."

She paused in the doorway, listening and almost breaking down into tears at the thought of her babies being away from her for at least seven hours, every week-day, until summer. It was a necessary thing, she knew, but from the day they were born, they had been moving out of her sphere and into their own little lives. In a few more years, they would be grown up and moving away and she knew she would cry for hours when that happened.

She went upstairs and changed into a pair of denim trousers and an old T-shirt and searched around until she found Sullivan's shirt, discarded on a chair by the window. Several of its buttons were missing, and she went back into the lounge to search for them. Duncan had taken the boys into the kitchen by then, and so she searched around until she found all but one of the buttons. She got her needle and thread and sat down by the fire, sewing the buttons back onto the shirt, her mind drifting—as it always did—to the man she loved. She thought of his touch and his rare, beautiful smiles and how she loved just being around him.

Every moment, from Christmas Eve onward, was forever branded in her mind—from that first kiss in that tiny space behind the bookshelf at Boxwood until the last time they had made love, in the early morning hours in her bed. Every conversation in between, including his heartfelt declaration of devotion last night, played back through her memory, and each one was as cherished as a rare jewel. She knew he loved her, and that she loved him… but she wanted to wear that ring. She wouldn't even try it on until he asked her, though. It was his to give, just like his heart, and she could not force him.

Just the same, his having not asked weighed heavily on her mind.

Duncan came in suddenly, flopping onto the sofa, looking exhausted. She neatly folded the shirt and tucked it into the basket by the fireplace. "I take it you met a 'looker' in Kembleford last night."

"More than a looker, Indy. She's… gorgeous."

"If her name is Bunty Archer, you're in trouble."

"Bunty's our cousin, Indy. Good grief. I'm not an idiot."

India snickered. "So what's her name?"

"Claudia."

"Hm." India dug in her sewing basket for one of Sebastian's torn shirts and began patching it. Duncan watched her for a moment, then moved to the chair opposite her and searched around for another shirt. She watched him gather up a needle, thread it and begin repairing a small hole. He was surprisingly good at sewing, and even liked to knit a bit. Two years ago, he had made her a very nice tartan sette blanket for Christmas, and in return she had made him a thick, warm quilt to use while camping out.

"Her father is a local judge."

"And will he be siccing the law on you for bedding his poor, innocent little daughter?"

"I didn't bed her! We just… spent some time together at a pub. Dancing, I drank down a couple of pints, she had a cherry Coke… besides, we just met last night, and she's never really had a… er… boyfriend or anything before. She's a bit shy, really. Sweet and pretty and shy."

That amused India—Duncan was young and healthy, and liked to pursue young women, but he was respectful and gallant towards the opposite sex and had no taste for girls who were regarded as 'fast'. "How old is she?"

"Nineteen."

India rolled her eyes. "Well. You're toeing the line at least." At his look, she shook her head. "I'm not ashamed to say that Sullivan and I are together, Dunk, but in hindsight, I'm relieved that I didn't sleep with him at sixteen—it would have been a terrible mistake, even though I knew I loved him even then. Your Claudia is the daughter of a local swell, so you'd better be careful. I assume she's never… ?"

"Probably not," Duncan muttered, finishing the shirt. "Like I said, I haven't… er… checked. Not like I'd ask, either. That would be ungentlemanly." He smiled slightly, but he looked troubled.

"It's different when you're just a young girl, Dunk. I'm twenty-six and a widow of independent means. You have to tread a careful line. I… well, I guess I do, too."

"I think you should, Indy. It may be nine-fifty-five, but the world hasn't regressed that much yet."

"Don't you mean 'progressed'?" she asked, teasing.

"No, indeed. I mean, I can't tell you what to do, and I'm hardly as pure as the driven snow myself, but the old standards still apply, regardless of the age we're living in. The world will keep on regressing, and I suspect some bunch of fools will even try to redefine standards to suit themselves, but that won't change anything, either. Can't remember who said it, but 'vice does not change its nature by becoming fashionable'."

She sighed and nodded. "You and whoever said that is right." She continued patching Sebastian's shirt, turning things over in her mind before looking at her brother. "I think he might propose," she said softly. "I pray that he does."

"I hope he does, too. I can't see you being a kept woman." India gave her brother a sharp look, and he raised his hands. "And I can't imagine him seeing you that way, either. I know he loves you—I've seen the way he looks at you, and you look at him the same way. But he's a cop and you're the daughter of a duke and the widow of a prince, and your son is the Hereditary Prince von Altburg and has about fifteen other titles and a buttload of money to cope with. People will think what they'll think and they'll say what they'll say, and you had better be ready for that, and so should he and so should your boys. Life ain't easy, and love damned sure isn't. I suppose if either was easy, they wouldn't be worth all the trouble."

"Very true," she said softly. "We both knew this would be complicated."

"Amen, sister," Duncan said tiredly. "Anyway, I promised your boys I'd take 'em both riding, down to the creek and maybe out into the woods. They want to see how much they can scare themselves without peeing their pants, I suppose. Sebby swears he's heard an owl out there every night, and Max wants to try and track deer and other local critters. You'll be okay here?"

"Sure. I'll get started on supper soon. I'm going to try my lasagna recipe."

"Sounds fabulous, as usual." He finished the shirt and after kissing her cheek, he rambled into the kitchen, calling for the boys to get their coats and boots on and get going. Her sons rushed into the lounge and she kissed them both.

"Now mind your Uncle Dunk and do as he says, and see you take care of your ponies, too," India said gently. She knew Max was heading into another growth spurt—he was already almost too big for his riding breeches. Sebastian was frustrated at still being rather small, but he took after Fritz's mother's side of the family in that regard. "We're having lasagna tonight, so get a good ride in and come back with good appetites."

"Yes'm," the boys said in chorus and went out with their uncle. India straightened up the lounge and went into the kitchen, finding a bit of a mess on the table—bookstraps and pencils and the like were strewn about, as well as a whetstone and a little chalkboard, where Max had been practicing mathematics. She settled everything into the basket—known as the 'as-you-go basket'—by the back stairs and began gathering up the ingredients for the lasagna. Within a few minutes, the pan of pasta was boiling cheerfully and she had ground up some beef and set it aside. She had already prepared the tomatoes, and the cheese had been melted. She consulted the recipe card, smiling at the Contessa di Spoletti's rather garbled English. 'Cook pasta too long, it taste like plastic!'

The doorbell rang, and India sighed, turned off the burners and went out to answer. She was a bit surprised to find Lady Felicia and Mrs. McCarthy standing there. "Oh. Hi. Come on in. How are y'all?"

Mrs. McCarthy was carrying a plate of her famous strawberry scones, and Lady Felicia turned back to gesture to Sid to come on as well. The young man trotted up the steps and into the house. "Sidney, you be on your best behavior," Mrs. McCarthy warned.

"Aren't I always?"

That got a brief eye-roll from the older woman. India led everyone into the kitchen and after a round of pleasantries and the pouring of tea, India turned the burners back on and set the timer.

"So what brings you out here?"

"A need for gossip," Sid said, taking a sip of his tea and looking like he might weep at the sheer brilliance of it.

"Sidney!" Mrs. McCarthy said, huffing in annoyance.

"Well… " India looked around. "I'm sure everyone in town has heard about the tunnels under my house?"

"Yes, that is fascinating!" Felicia said eagerly. "But I was… er… interested in another matter. I understand Inspector Sullivan recently suffered a loss… ?"

"Yes, his father died. He was buried on the thirtieth." India checked the pasta and found it perfectly ready. She gingerly lifted one layer of noodles out of the pot and spread it carefully across the bottom of a pan, then spread another alongside it, covering the bottom. She applied tomato sauce, ground beef and cheese, added some extra bits of basil and oregano and ground red pepper (but eschewed olives, as Sebastian couldn't abide them), and looked up to see Mrs. McCarthy had moved over to watch her carefully. India smiled patiently and got the next layer of noodles out, spreading them carefully in the pan and covering them with another layer of the mixture. "Please, Mrs. McCarthy, I can't let you see the secret ingredient."

The older woman looked embarrassed and went back to her seat. Sid wasn't quite so easily put off, though, and he came over to peer into the pan, as curious as a cat. "Mrs. M says you're a food witch," he said.

India laughed. "I wouldn't go that far, but I do have pixie dust around here somewhere… "

Mrs. McCarthy huffed. India gave Sid a lemon bar, which he popped into his mouth. His eyes widened and he drew in his breath before looking at the women at the table.

"Witch or not, that's just… oh, God, this is better than sex!"

"Sidney!" Lady Felicia scolded, but she was struggling to keep from laughing. "Inspector Sullivan is… um… doing well?"

"Yes, he's all right, I think. He and his father didn't exactly get on well, but I think a lot of the right things were said before he died."

Mrs. McCarthy cleared her throat, still glaring at Sid. "We understand you traveled to London to… er… assist."

"Yes." India finished preparing the lasagna and slid the pan into the oven. She set the timer again and got out her oven mitts. "I was very happy to help out. We stayed in London until the day after New Year's." Her cheeks pinked at the memory of his almost ferocious passion of the night after his father's death, and briefly touched her belly, wondering again. It was still too soon to know, but she had an inkling…

"Oh. At… er… a hotel, I assume."

"Yes, we stayed the Savoy."

"I can't see Sullivan at a place like that," Sid said. "Maybe someplace cheap… "

India gave Sid a look that made him step back, startled, and he went back to the table and sat down, cowed. She washed her hands and poured herself a cup of tea, then joined everyone at the table. The scent of baking lasagna filled the room and Mrs. McCarthy muttered something about Lotus Eaters before taking another sip. "Separate rooms, I'm sure."

That got a snicker from Lady Felicia.

India wasn't about to answer. She might be shameless in bed with her sweet Alex, but when it came to gossiping about him, that was out of the question. Not that she wasn't eager to fill Clare in on the matter—she knew her sister-in-law had a still tongue in her mouth, after all, and sometimes a woman did want to confide in someone trustworthy and ask for advice as well.

Lady Felicia sipped her tea, pondering another tack to take. "He is very handsome," she said quietly. "He can even be somewhat charming when required. And God knows he's brave enough… remember the Beresford case? He tried so hard to save that man from drowning… what was his name again… Hubble?"

"Yes, I recall," Mrs. McCarthy said, brightening. "The Inspector was chilled to the bone, and he does have all those medals for bravery. Though I suppose some might say he can be a bit… rash."

"And he had enough nerve to attend that soiree at my place a month after the Beresford fracas. How he managed to keep those girls off him is beyond me."

India looked at Felicia, wary. "What girls?"

"I had invited four local lovelies, and they were certainly interested in him. But he was only polite, and just seemed distracted. One of the gentlemen present got a bit tipsy, though, and was a tad grabby with one of the girls, and so Sullivan asked him if he wanted to double the number of bones in his hand from twenty-seven to fifty-four. Then the Mayor started haranguing him about having arrested the mayor's idiot son for public intoxication. The fact that the inspector didn't punch him in the face is a credit to his self-control, I'd say, particularly when the Mayor cast aspersions on the character of his mother… in a manner of speaking."

Sid chuckled. "Well, I'll give Sullivan points on that. I'd punch the Mayor if he said anything about my Mum."

"Inspector Sullivan is a very carefully controlled man," India said softly. She smiled into her teacup, thinking about his control in terms not related to reining in his temper. Last night, he had even timed—right down to the second—one of her…

"So you and the Inspector are an item, eh?" Sid asked, earning a sharp tsk from Mrs. McCarthy.

"Yes, we are," India said softly. "I love him with all my heart. In fact, he's the love of my life." That got her three startled gazes, and she took another sip. "More tea?"

* * *

Sullivan sat across from Horatio Scroggins, watching the bony little man sob. He had had to inform him of his brother's death, and the petty thief had broken down into surprisingly sincere tears. Sullivan waited, unsure of what to do—he wasn't necessarily in the comforting-of-criminals business. He wasn't going to sacrifice his handkerchief, either.

"Mr. Scroggins, you need to pull yourself together. I'm sorry for your loss, but you're in a prison interrogation room and I need to ask you some questions."

"That cold-blooded bitch!" Scroggins said. "I knew she'd do somethin' like this! I warned Bernie…!"

"What bitch?" Sullivan asked, leaning forward.

"That woman who hired Bernie. I didn't want nothin' to do with it—can't stand tight spaces, anyway."

"And who was this woman?"

"I dunno. She only ever talked to us on the phone. Never saw her."

"Accent?" Sullivan asked cautiously, already writing in his notebook.

"She sounded posh. Upper-crust type."

Sullivan nodded. "Did anyone else ever communicate with you?"

Scroggins swallowed and tugged nervously at his collar. "Nah. Just 'er."

"Mr. Scroggins, if you're lying to me, I should perhaps remind you that the lives of an innocent young woman and two small children might well be endangered. Could you live with yourself if they were harmed?"

The thief paled slightly and looked down—Sullivan knew that neither he nor his late brother was violent criminals, and that Horatio (for all his stealing and fencing of even his own mother's false teeth) did not countenance physically harming women or children. "I knew this… this feller. Kind of a rough chap… used to work for the Krays back in London, but he even gave them the willies, as he's pretty mean. He… sort of… helped out a bit."

"In what way?" Sullivan asked sharply. "Tell me."

"A couple months ago, before the snow started and that woman bought Applecross, he and some other lads—not me or Bernie!—moved some big boxes out to Applecross and put 'em in a big underground storage thing by the road between that property and the one next door."

"And what was in the boxes? Do you know?"

"I dunno. I just remember Lonnie… "

Sullivan leaned forward, tensing. "Lonnie Garner?"

"Yeah. Him. Er… 'e was in 'is cups one night, out at the Red Lion, and an' he started talkin' about that posh lady hirin' 'im and some other lads to move the boxes. Lonnie said there was prob'ly about six of 'em. Big boxes, too, and several things wrapped up big red carpets. 'e said they was all valuable and very fragile, then they had to cover up the hole with boards and rocks."

"Was this before or after she contacted you?"

"After," Scroggins said, scratching the back of his neck. "She called me an' Bernie a day or so before they took the boxes out there. I wasn't about to go through those tunnels, but Horatio didn't have no trouble with it. She knew where the entryways were, and told me, and I… I told Bernie. I guess he told Lonnie."

"And the carpets are down there, too?"

"I dunno."

"Did Lonnie tell you anything else?"

"No. 'e left after that." Scroggins swallowed. "Lonnie Garson… last I heard, 'e and an' 'is brother are both in gaol in Kembleford for brawlin' at the Red Lion."

"No… " Sullivan drew in his breath. "They were both released on bail and are awaiting trial." He had been opposed to releasing Lennie and Lonnie Garson—they were bad news: notorious for their violence ranging from roughing up local shopowners to muggings and rumors that Lennie liked to knock his own wife and children about. Neither had been seen or heard from around Kembleford since, however, and that fact simply terrified him. Now that he knew that Lonnie had previously worked for the Krays, he felt a chill go down his spine.

"Don't tell 'em I told ya nothin'!" Scroggins pleaded. "Them boys… they're mean as devils and ain't afraid o' hurtin' nobody. I wouldn't put it past him to kill my brother. He'll kill me if he finds out I talked! Kembleford gaol couldn't stop him killin' Bernie, and I know Gloucester gaol can't stop 'im neither!"

Sullivan was already on his feet, banging on the door to the interrogation room. A constable opened the door, looking concerned. "Is everything all right, sir?"

"Call the Kembleford constabulary right now and have at least four constables sent straight to Applecross. Then I want a full-scale search started for the Garson brothers! Now!"

* * *

India watched everyone eat their plate of lasagna, noting Mrs. McCarthy's wide eyes and Sid just gobbling up his serving. Her grandmother had once told her that if she couldn't figure out what fork to use for each course, she should just put her napkin on her head and eat with her hands, and she contemplated putting a kerchief over Sid's head. His nose was running and his eyes were glassy, and he was shoveling lasagna into his mouth with gusto. Sullivan had told her that Sid was often incarcerated, so perhaps he had missed more than his share of good meals. That made her think of poor Bernie Scroggins, and she sighed sadly.

She was not prepared for Mrs. McCarthy to push the plate away and look like she might start to cry.

"I can't compete with this!"

"Mrs. McCarthy… " India said gently. "Is something wrong?"

"I can't!" the older woman wailed. "I tried to make that bundt cake, and it was a disaster! I followed the recipe to the letter!"

"I'm sure it was just fine, ma'am," India said, looking at Felicia, who looked appalled and even slightly amused. "I've heard many people praise your cooking, in fact."

"You could have used it as a cricket ball," Sid said, which got him a kick in the ankle from Felicia. "Well, it was… bad."

"You're a culinary genius!" Mrs. McCarthy said. "I'm embarrassed to have even brought my bloody strawberry scones!"

"Mrs. McCarthy, your scones are lovely," India said. She hadn't thought they were worthy of any prizes, really, but who was she to judge? This was England, for heaven's sake—it was considered a culinary triumph when someone didn't die immediately after eating shepherd's pie.

Mrs. McCarthy just shook her head and looked glumly at her plate of scones, which were still sitting on the countertop. India got up and brought the plate over, setting it down. Sid took one and ate it, nodding cheerfully at the poor woman, who was too upset to take one for herself. India got one, too, and took a bite. The scone was almost rubbery—it had been handled too much, and had not been buttered like biscuit dough should be—but the cream and strawberries were lovely. "Very nice, Mrs. McCarthy."

"A food witch she is, and there's no lie!"

"Do you… er… have dessert?" Felicia asked, hoping to pull the discussion away from Mrs. McCarthy, lest she became hysterical.

India was bewildered by Mrs. McCarthy's bizarre accusations. There was nothing about witchcraft going on in her kitchen. It involved mixing the right ingredients together, in the proper way, and seeing that things balanced out to create the desired textures and flavors. "Er… yes. Lemon bisque. From the Buchanan High School cafeteria recipe book. It's very good. My sons love it."

"Oh, dear God!" Mrs. McCarthy wailed and burst into tears.

India was relieved when the doorbell rang. She got up and went out to answer, and returned to the kitchen trailed by four lanky constables. Sid immediately looked nervous, but they weren't interested in him—all four men began searching through the house and asked a few polite questions about any unusual activity around the place. India answered each question as well as she could, and shortly after the constables come tromping in, Duncan arrived with her sons and the round of questions began again. She was relieved to escape back into the kitchen, where Sid and Lady Felicia were trying to calm Mrs. McCarthy down with a bowl of lemon bisque.

* * *

Sullivan arrived back at the constabulary in a frantic state. He couldn't get back to Applecross until various forms of paperwork was filled out (so much for the glamour of police work), then he had to follow up on minor cases: a burglary (the victim had found the burglar asleep on his sofa, so the charges were merely unlawful entry and stupidity), a fracas resulting from a dispute over the results of a dart game (Sullivan declared the results void and gave them desk tickets), and the disappearance of several sheep. The sheepnapping required a visit to Cobbler's Knob Farm, where sheep stood around in a surprisingly warm fold, chewing and looking as vacuous as any politician.

A bent-over little man told him that Jenny, Mary, Louise, Eleanor, Alice, Patricia and Skullywags had all vanished from the farm last night.

"You named them?" Sullivan asked, pushing his hat back and looking around the fold. How could he tell one from the other? "Er… Skullywags?"

"Aye. All good ewes, too."

"I see. Well… er… do you have any idea who would take them?"

Constable Riley, recovered from his deprivation of India's cookies, was writing eagerly on his notepad and brightly asked, "Werewolf?"

Sullivan and the little old man stared at the young PC, who blanched a bit and scratched his head.

"Yes, well, let's put that possibility at the bottom of the list, for now, PC Riley, and go for the non-lunatic notion first. Have you seen anyone around who might be… ouch… dammit, get off my foot!… suspicious, Mr… er… Coulson?" He shooed a curious ewe away, and the wooly creature trotted back to rejoin her baaing companions.

A chorus of deep-bass baa's was being answered in quavering maa's, and the noise was deafening. Sullivan had to shout to be heard.

"Nay, sir. I've not seen anyone about. And I know me sheep. I can tell one from the other pretty well. I know their voices, and I know what they look like. Jenny's got long eyelashes, and Mary has a tear-mark on the corner of her right eye, and Louise has a wee nick in her left ear. Eleanor has a crooked eye-tooth on the right side, Alice always has a runny nose, Patricia always looks angry, and Skullywags has a black question mark on her face, right below her right eye."

Sullivan instinctively began drawing sheep's faces on his notepad, and the old man peered down at each drawing. "Aye, that's how they look! Right good job there, Inspector."

Sullivan stared down at the drawings, momentarily appalled—the past few days, he had found himself drawing all the time, even when not stressed, and more and more people were commenting on it. Thus far, no one had said anything negative about his sketches. In fact, people always seemed impressed, which still baffled him.

PC Riley looked stunned. "Those look like photos of sheep!" the young constable said. "How did you do that, sir?"

Sullivan cleared his throat. "Er… yes… we'll post the pictures in town, sir. They're either out there somewhere or they're… ahem… not looking like this anymore."

The old man nodded and stumped back into his little house. Sullivan got back in the car, and when Riley got in he looked at Sullivan, a bit bewildered.

"You can draw, sir?"

"Yes. I can. And it can be pretty useful sometimes." He backed the car out and headed back toward Kembleford. "I just hope I don't have to draw mutton chops for poor Mr. Coulson and see if he can make positive IDs from someone's dinner. I'm dropping you back at the station and heading back to Applecross. I want you to join the remaining constables in the search for the Garson brothers. I want them _found_."

* * *

It was unnerving to have four constables loping about the place, keeping guard, but India didn't question their reasons for being there. Sid, Mrs. McCarthy, and Lady Felicia ate their lemon bisque, expressions of rapture on their faces, and India gave the constables leftovers of lasagna, ham, peas and cornbread, as well as lemon bisque. Duncan and her boys sat down with them all and ate their meals with great pleasure, and the boys were soon following the constables around, being sweetly pesky and being indulged by the policemen. She saw Max gallop down the hall wearing a helmet and wielding a truncheon, while Sebastian sat on the terrace, examining a badge and chatting with Sergeant Goodfellow.

When she saw Sullivan's car pull up, she couldn't keep from snickering as he stopped to ask one of the young men what he was doing standing there looking so daft, with an empty plate in his hand.

"I'm sorry, sir… I… I… kind of forgot where I was." He looked down at the plate and then back at Sullivan. "This stuff… it's like ambrosia, sir! Wars could start over the final piece of that woman's lasagna! And the lemon bisque! Oh, God… I think I may have caught a glimpse of heaven itself! It wasn't bitter, but it was tart and just sweet enough and... and... " The young man looked like he might begin to weep.

Sullivan looked amused and came on inside.

She stood still in the lounge, watching him come in. He hung his hat and coat on the peg, and that made something in her heart just melt into a puddle—the idea of him coming home, every day, and hanging his hat there by her coat made her incredibly happy. Just seeing him was like Christmas and Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July all rolled together, with a rill of excitement going down her spine, like whenever she heard _The Star-Spangled Banner_. "Hi," she said. "Are you hungry?"

He smiled at her, and her heart started beating faster. "Yes, I'm starving actually. That chicken sandwich was amazing… and the cake… but I haven't eaten since."

"Thank you. I'm glad you liked it," she said softly and blushed when Mrs. McCarthy came to the door and pausing, waiting. India smiled at her, then at Sullivan, who raised his eyebrows.

"We have lasagna—I kept plenty warm for you."

"Tea!" Mrs. McCarthy said and went back to the kitchen.

"She thinks I'm a witch," India said, once she was gone.

"She didn't make dinner, did she?"

"No. I… I also have lemon bisque." She shyly touched his face. "Are you okay?"

"Of course I'm okay. Are you?"

"I'm fine."

He swallowed and looked around the room. "I'll be staying tonight… if you don't mind. I'll send the constables home, and I'll make Lady Felicia and whatsername leave, too. Duncan is around here somewhere, right?"

"He's upstairs, recovering from a long ride, and I don't mind at all," she whispered, and kissed him, wrapping her arms around his neck, breathing a sigh of relief when he gently embraced her. "I won't feel safe without you here."

"Listen… this entire situation has gotten a bit bigger, India," he told her before kissing her again. When they finally stopped for breath, he managed to continue. "There's a pair of very unpleasant and very large brothers who might be involved in hiding whatever's out there under the cairn, and we've got a search on for them. I think Lady Penelope might have hired them to do that job, and she might well have hired one or both of them to kill Bernie Scroggins."

"Oh." India sighed. "But you don't know for sure?"

"No true evidence yet. We'd have to get a full confession out of her. I'll be getting the orders arranged for the autopsy on Lord Reginald, and the exhumation order for Lord Alfred de Ros, too."

"Why Lord Alfred?" She asked, and rested her forehead on his chest, then looked up at him. "Is that a hoofprint on your shoe?"

* * *

Once Lady Felicia and her retinue and the constables had left, Sullivan herded India out of the kitchen and he and Duncan washed the dishes and put everything away (there were no leftovers). Duncan didn't want to stay up—his long ride with the boys had worn him out, and he was coming down with a cold. Sullivan watched, curious, as India soaked a long sock in eucalyptus and strong-smelling menthol oil and wrapped it around her brother's neck.

"What does that do?" he asked, once Duncan and the boys were upstairs. It was almost ten o'clock, and she could barely keep her eyes open. She and Sullivan had settled on the couch, listening to the radio play soft classical music and keeping warm by the fire.

"Clears out the nasal passages. My mother was no cook, bless her, but she knew all the old home remedies and even some rather… primitive means of treating illnesses and injuries."

"Did she like living in America?" he asked, yawning.

"She did, actually. She made a lot of friends in Buchanan." She snuggled back against his chest, sighing.

"India?"

"Mmm?"

He carefully removed the pins from her hair and set them on the table, then gently ran his fingers through her hair, rubbing the spots where the pins had made her sore. She sighed softly, relieved and happy to be with him again.

"Will you marry me?"

That woke her up. She sat up straight and looked back at him, then scrambled back to her knees beside him. He was holding up the little ring, and she stared at it, the diamond flickering softly in the firelight. "How did… did… "

"I snuck back upstairs and got it when I was supposed to be yelling at Barnstable for sneaking an extra bowl of lemon bisque. I remembered I had left it on the bedside table, which I will say was in bad taste on my part, all things considered, and I'm sorry if that upset you. It belonged to my mother… it was her engagement ring."

"So the 'AS' was Ardal Sullivan, and the 'IM' was Irene MacFarlane."

"Yes. I can have it redone… "

"No. I love it the way it is," she said softly. She let him put it on her finger, and was delighted to find it fit perfectly. "I won't change your mother's ring, not for anything in the world. It's beautiful. Neither Cartier nor Tiffany's could make anything lovelier."

"So… er… will you… ?"

"Of course I will, you silly sausage!" she said, cupping his face and kissing him sweetly. "Yes." He pulled her closer, kissing her again, making her melt. "Yes, I will marry you."

"When?" he asked her, a bit breathless.

"As soon as possible," she whispered, undoing his tie. "Right here, tonight, if possible."

"I'd rather it be a public ceremony, actually. Do you mind if Father Brown does it?" He was impatiently pushing her shirt up, and she raised her arms and let him pull it off and toss it aside. He undid her jeans, murmuring softly about how good she looked in denim, and she shimmied out of them before scrambling back into his lap, kissing him with ardent passion, sighing with pleasure as his hands caressed her.

"I wouldn't mind at all. But I can assure you, right now, I don't want to think about priests."

He smiled and touched her cheek, and she turned her head to kiss his palm. "Me neither. I need you," he whispered against her mouth, before kissing her and making her ache with desire. "I can't live without you." She whimpered softly as he stood and pulled her up to her feet. "I suppose I should have gotten down on my knee," he said, melting her again with another hot, lusty kiss.

"That's not necessary," she said softly. "You could have just called me from the church and I'd have come running. Now. Take me to bed, Inspector."

* * *

Sullivan arrived at the constabulary ten minutes late and looking slightly dazed. He ignored the curious looks of the constables and ordered another set of four to head out to Applecross to stand guard at every entryway, as well as in the library.

He had left her bed reluctantly. She had all sorts of ideas about the wedding—she didn't want anything elaborate, and wanted it to be done as soon as possible, and had commented that it would seem silly for her to wear a white wedding dress. They had to put that discussion on hold, however, as she had to get her sons ready for their first day at school in town. Sullivan had slipped out of the house without being noticed (or so he hoped, for her sake), stopped by his cottage to change and shave, and didn't really care that he was late.

He sat down at his desk, reading over yesterday's sheepnapping file and making a note to call local butcher shops to see if anyone had suddenly received a group of ewes, and pondered the drawings he had made. He assigned Fray and Norris to that task, got Riley to check the sleeping burglar's criminal history, and had Goodfellow draw up a posting schedule for constables guarding Applecross.

He was engaged. The very notion of it was almost too bizarre. It had been just four weeks since India had arrived in Kembleford, and last night she had agreed to be his wife. He supposed some might say they were rushing things when he thought about it, he realized he didn't care what people thought. Besides, there was the possibility she was already pregnant—he wasn't going to have anything whispering about her on her wedding day. The sooner they married, the better. The idea of having children still made him nervous, but he would just have to learn. India knew how to handle children fairly well, and he had no doubt she would give him pointers along the way.

Sullivan was lost in his thoughts when Goodfellow knocked on the door and came in, handing him the coroner's report. "Lady de Ros didn't seem too happy about the inquest order," he said. "But her husband's body is currently on the table."

"Hm."

"Sir? Father Brown is here. He wants to see you about some kind of… er… plans?"

"Oh. Right. Send him in."

Goodfellow left, and soon Father Brown came in, clutching his umbrella. "Good morning, Inspector. I've done a good bit of reading on Protestant wedding services. Did you… er… ask her for her hand?"

"Yes, and she said yes."

Brown looked pleased. "Considering neither you nor the princess are Catholic, I queried the Bishop on the matter and he had no strong objections to the service being held at St. Mary's, as both of you are noted as believers, but he also wondered if the service could be at some other… er… venue."

"Bit cold for an outdoor wedding, Father," Sullivan answered distractedly.

"True. But perhaps it could be held at Applecross or… "

"I think India would prefer a church wedding, Father, and she's fond of you." Sullivan opened the file and read over Sir George Hicks-Beech's requests for the inquest and the exhumation of Lord Alfred de Ros. "It will be a small service, too—her oldest brother will give her away, and she's already asked Lady Felicia to stand as matron of honor and I suppose I'll have Duncan stand up on my side."

"I see. You've no relatives to come out from London?"

Sullivan paused. "I suppose I could ask my cousin Brighid to come out."

"Very good. I would look forward to meeting members of your family." Brown smiled. "Is there any sort of update on the Applecross case?"

"The Garson brothers appear to have been involved."

Brown blanched slightly. "Oh dear. That cannot be good."

"I understand they were raised as Methodists," Sullivan said, almost smirking, despite how uneasy that made him. "India would say their dipping didn't take."

"Either way, they are known for being quite violent. One of them knocks his poor wife about."

Sullivan nodded. He had a particular loathing for men who mistreated their wives and children. If he could put the Garson brothers in prison for their violence alone, that would be almost enough. But if they harmed India or her children, gaol would not be their final destination—they would be interred somewhere outside a churchyard, as neither was worthy of a Christian burial.

"I've got constables guarding Applecross, and Lord Reginald de Ros is currently being examined by the coroner, much to Lady Penelope's displeasure. I'm also exhuming his older brother, Lord Alfred. Seems Lady Penelope was married to him previously."

Father Brown looked extremely surprised. "Well, that is a rum one, isn't it?"

Sullivan's phone rang suddenly, and he answered it quickly.

"Inspector Sullivan? Calvert here, from out Carleigh way. Have a minute?"

"Er… yes. You're the coroner?"

"Yep. Lord de Ros checked out normal, save a pickled liver and ground-up oleander leaves in his stomach."

"Oleander?" Sullivan looked at Father Brown, whose eyebrows lifted almost to the ceiling. "That's a pretty powerful poison."

"Sure is."

Father Brown leaned forward. "Oleander is not common to Gloucestershire, though I do know of some shrubs being cultivated in a few local private greenhouses… "

"I know that!" Sullivan snapped, and he rubbed his eyes. The priest sat back, pursing his lips. "Has Lord Alfred's body been exhumed yet?"

"We'll be on that this afternoon. Lady Penelope threw quite the tantrum, saying we were bringing calamity down upon us for such doings."

"If she wants to talk about calamity, she can explain how her husband ended up with oleander in his stomach," Sullivan said. "I want Lord Alfred's body checked for oleander, too."

"Of course, sir. We'll call you as soon as we know."

"Thanks." Sullivan rang off and sat back in his chair, rubbing his face. "Do you know how the poison is extracted from oleander plants?"

"I can definitely look it up."

"Yes, I'm sure you have whole books on poisons, their uses, and antidotes."

"Well, not exactly, but I have a few resources."

Sullivan smirked. "Well, if you come across anyone named Borgia skulking about Kembleford, don't hesitate to call me. Meanwhile, perhaps you could take Mrs. McCarthy with you to Applecross and keep India company? Her boys started school today and I know she's a little… "

"Depressed?"

"She adores her sons." Sullivan drew his breath. "I… er… admit I'm not… sure how to deal with two little boys. I never got to be a child myself and… "

"You'll do just fine, Inspector. Little boys need fathers, after all. They have boys their own age to be their friends, so that won't be your job—you'll be a leader, and when necessary, the disciplinarian, though I always advise fathers to be firm but never harsh. Set a reasonable and attainable but very firm standard, allow for personality to be a major factor in how each child is dealt with, show clemency when penitence is demonstrated, and play with them every chance you get."

Sullivan sat back in his chair. "I wish you had been around when my father was young."

Brown smiled slightly. "I was very sorry to hear of your loss, Inspector."

Sullivan loosened his tie, feeling uncomfortable about discussing his father with anyone. "Thank you."

"I take it you and your father didn't exactly get on well."

"No. We never did."

Brown nodded. "You know, forgiveness is a powerful tonic. An antidote to every imaginable kind of poison, and it lifts quite a weight off our shoulders."

"Hm." Sullivan opened the sheepnapping file and stared down at the faces he had drawn of the missing ewes. The priest leaned forward and studied the drawings.

"You are a remarkably talented man, Inspector."

"I took drawing lessons in school. I mean, for a while. But my father… " He squirmed a little. "He didn't approve."

"He thought it unmanly for you to draw?"

"I suppose so."

"Is anyone else in your family artistically gifted?"

"My cousin Brighid, and my mother and grandmother." His brow furrowed. "My cousin Diarmid paints, as I recall… " He had almost forgotten about that. Diarmid had mentioned doing a portrait of Never Say Die and the owner of the horse being very taken with it. His cousin was even getting commissions to paint favorite horses and pets of the landed gentry, and was even doing the occasional portrait, and was making nice money for it. Brighid—a MacFarlane—was extremely talented at drawing landscapes and portraits, as well as what she called 'fantasy art'—fairies and pixies and the like. She didn't possess the dour Sullivan need for practicality, after all, but had a great deal of the MacFarlane family's sense of whimsy and wry wit.

"Well, the past has passed. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow is blind. Today is a gift—that's why they call it the present, eh?" Brown smiled. "Forgive, Inspector. Let go of the past, and hone your talents. Your work here is important and necessary, and drawing seems to calm you, which makes it easier for you to cope with the stresses of your work." He stood. "I know you'll uncover whatever happened to the Lords de Ros, and that Bernie Scroggins murderer will be brought to justice. Everyone in Kembleford knows they can rely on you. Good afternoon."

Sullivan couldn't argue with Brown's point. He nodded absently and looked down at the drawings of the missing ewes and wondered if they were part of a practical joke of some kind. He barely noticed Father Brown leaving, and tapped his pen on the page, thinking.

The lads at the Red Lion were apt to pull outlandish tricks on the lads at the King John, and vise versa. He got up, pulling on his coat, and went out, muttering to a constable that he was doing a bit of looking around for Bo Beep's sheep. The King John was just two blocks from the constabulary, so he figured he would start there.

The King John was a rather ramshackle little place, dim inside (like all public houses), but warm. It lacked ambiance of any kind, but they served good local bitter ale and the owner had recently started serving lunches that would keep a man alive but would never match India's brilliance. The pub's owner, in fact, was a rather comely young woman named Betsy Ross. She took no small amount of joshing over her name, but she was good at her job and did not tolerant drunkenness or rude behavior among the pub patrons. Their rivalry with the Red Lion lads was limited to annual cricket match and pranks, with no violence ever resulting.

Only three or four patrons were at the bar when Sullivan walked in, and Betsy looked up from washing some glasses and eyed him warily. "Our license is up to date, Inspector," she said.

"I'm not here about that. I was wondering if your establishment and the Red Lion have been pulling any pranks lately."

"Hm? Oh. No. Not that I know of. Things have been quiet lately." She put a glass down and began cleaning another. She smiled. "Well, you're looking rather dashing these days, Inspector. You and that princess finally reached an accord?"

He stared at her, taken aback, and she just laughed.

"Oh, come on, Inspector. This is a tiny town. We have a grapevine a Loire valley winery would envy. Tongues are wagging." She put away the glass. "What do you need to know about pranks?"

"Just had a theory. Some sheep were stolen the night before last and I'm checking around. It has the marks of a prank, at best. At worst, someone is enjoying an illicitly obtained meal of mutton tonight."

She shuddered. "I hate mutton. Utterly vile stuff." The phone rang in the office behind the bar, and she nodded for him to sit and wait. She went into the office, and for a moment Sullivan looked at the painting of a group of Highland cattle standing in a pond, green grass hanging out of their mouths, and nearly jumped out of his shoes when Betsy screamed. The other patrons looked up from their pints of ale, vaguely concerned, but Sullivan vaulted over the bar and rushed in.

Betsy was up on her desk, skirts snatched up, and around her were the missing sheep. One—with a question mark below its eye—baa'd pleasantly at Sullivan, snatched a piece of paper off the desk and began eating it. Betsy squeaked when a sheep began nuzzling her foot. Had it not been for his quiet respect for Betsy, he would have laughed. He supposed he would save that for later, in private—he knew the consequences of laughing at someone's misfortune or discomfort.

"Well, we'll mark this case solved," Sullivan said, feeling much better. He went out to the patrons. "Oi! Go get a shepherd's hook and help us get these sheep out of here. I'm heading out to the Red Lion to pinch whoever stole these sheep and brought them here. Good day to you all, gentlemen—go help Mrs. Ross down."

"Best wishes on your upcoming nuptials, Inspector," one of the patrons said, giving him a two-finger salute. Sullivan stared at him for a moment, nodded, and went back out into the bright afternoon. He let his memory take a photograph of Betsy Ross standing on her desk, surrounded by sheep, and stored it away for a sketch for later. For now, however, he had a roving gang of sheepnappers to contend with, a murderer to catch, and a wedding to plan.


End file.
